


The Days

by SmellyKelo



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14789037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmellyKelo/pseuds/SmellyKelo
Summary: In a world where Roger and Rafa are nobodies, they remember who they used to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [return to ithaca](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960289) by [Eliane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane). 



> This work is inspired by Eliane's 'Return to Ithaca' in Tennis RPF. It is a beautiful story, please read it. Eliane says the original story from Roger's POV. I am grateful for Eliane's permission to tell the same story from Rafa's POV.
> 
> And this is a work of fiction, obviously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some suicidal thoughts/action

A pleasant warmth on his face wakes him up. The sun has risen above the trees in the east, which means he is a bit late. But he does not wish to get out of bed. He does not wish to do anything today. Why should he – the house is deserted, there is no one to cook for, Roger is gone….Roger – the only whole in his life that was broken to pieces in a single morning. So much time has gone by since, but it feels like only yesterday…..

It was a day just like this. He had woken up a bit late, with the sun in his face. In his parents’ house also, his bedroom windows faced the east. When he walked into the kitchen, his uncle had almost finished breakfast. His sister too was at the table, but her food was untouched in front of her. Perhaps she was waiting for him. He was ready for his uncle’s admonitions, but the man did not even look up from his food. He ventured, “If you would give me just five minutes, uncle, I will be ready”.

His uncle looked up. “Ready for what, Rafael?”

Rafa should have understood then that something was terribly wrong, but he thought Toni was just very angry. What a fool he was! “For practice, uncle,” he murmured.

“I think you forget about your foot,” said Toni.

“That was a long time ago, uncle! I – it does not bother me anymore!” Rafa protested. He looked around for help, but his mother was standing like a statue at the kitchen door, and his sister had stopped eating; her hands holding a spoon and a fork were very still on her plate.

Toni went on, “What do you want to practise for, Rafael? You no longer play since that problem with your foot, son.” He was trying to be kind. But a storm was raging in Rafa’s mind. What on earth was his uncle talking about! And why was nobody protesting, telling him this was an elaborate practical joke (although he hated jokes about physical pain)? Were they not with him during his darkest hours, when he was staring at a future without tennis? And were they not with him, when he returned triumphant, again and again, after every injury? Apparently not. He was a different person, and they were different people. They were all strangers in this new world.

He does not remember much of what happened next. He has a few disjointed memories, as if those incidents took place in some vacuum. He remembers opening the trophy cabinets, only those cabinets did not contain his trophies, but books related to his job. Apparently, in this world, he was an accountant. In this world the name of Rafael Nadal was not synonymous with Roland Garros. He had not won any of the other grand slams either. He was not the winner of the highest number of Masters titles. In short, he was a nobody. He was not remembered, nor were his victories or defeats, his struggles or his fight against time. In this world, he had all the time in the world, and nothing to do with all that time.

He does not remember how he went from the trophy room to the gym in his house. Apparently, he had a gym at his home, and he had the figure of an athlete, although his job was sitting at a desk all day, counting out money. Apparently, his parents were still divorced, and his father did not live with them. Why? Why? Why did all these negligible details remain same, while the most important thing did not exist? Where went his entire life? His rage obscured his brain, tears obscured his vision. He had grabbed the pull up bar and started doing that most difficult exercise in the world, until he lost count, until he could not continue and dropped to the floor. He remained there, facedown, and cried, and wanted to die, but death came not.

He went to his job the following day. He could not make any head or tail of anything. Goodness knows how he had carried it out all this time! Then he remembered he had not. This isn’t me, he thought. He quit the job then and there. It did not matter much, he had more than enough money to continue the rest of his life without doing anything. Some things had remained the same; all the unimportant ones.

He remembers he had a big row with his uncle, he forgets what it was about. But he can still see vividly in his head how he later searched himself up in Google. And there it was, the ultimate proof of what everyone was saying. He did play tennis when he was a child – that would explain the home gym and the swimming pool – and had won a few junior titles. But his promising career had been cut short by a defect in his foot; he had never made it to the professional tour. “That is not true”, he said loudly. The way he remembered it, the problem in his foot was discovered _after _he had won his first grand slam, the French Open. Before that, he had had his grand slam debut at Wimbledon, and had played some ATP and Challenger tournaments also. And even after that foot problem, he had carried on, had a long career for someone with so many injuries. “In some other world, Rafael,” he told himself. That night he asked his mother the whereabouts of the trophies he had won as a child. She took him to her bedroom. Those few trophies were in a small glass cabinet, all spotlessly clean. Perhaps she cleaned them every day – mementos of what her son had for a short time, and how much more of it she thought he had deserved. “When they said you could not play anymore,” she was saying in a whisper, “I was as dejected as you were. But I had to remain strong for you; I could not cry like you. I had wanted all that you had wanted….but then you decided you would make your life meaningful in other ways, and you studied as hard as you trained earlier…” Rafa could hear the tears in her voice. He could not look up at her, but he said in a strong voice, “That is not how I remember it, mother! In my memories I am a household name.” Yes, he had said it in the present tense. “I am not the son you remember. And you are not what I remember of you.” Perhaps it was too harsh. She was crying silently. He kissed her head and went out.__

__He had only another clear memory. It was more than five months after life as he knew it had vanished. He was restless all day, could not sleep at night, and went down to the sea. The sea is eternal – it flows and ebbs all day, everyday. The sound of the waves under the stars have always soothed him. And that night the waves were calling him – Come, Rafael, we will make you happy, we love you, we remember you! He took off his shoes and his shirt and swam out to meet the waves. A hundred arms took him, a thousand fingers brushed away his tears, a million voices called him to his actual home, promised to take him back to his original life. He gave in and floated away – it was beautiful, no worries, no pain – and then some girl shouted. The spell was broken; he was drowning, he could not breathe! Then a pair of strong arms caught him and took him back to the beach. Rafa looked at his saviour – a boy in his early twenties maybe, with blue eyes and wet dark hair plastered to his face. “Glad to meet you. Miguel Ángel.” There was a slight hint of rum in his breath. He held out his hand. Rafa took it. “Rafael. Thanks for saving me.” The boy touched Rafa’s face with a finger and then went back to his party; it was a small group of boys and girls in their late teens._ _

__

__Next morning, Rafa moved out of his ancestral home._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa rediscovers his will to live. He is a fighter, he will try to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I thank everybody who gave me kudos for chapter 1. Your appreciation is my reward :)
> 
> I would like to mention here that English is not my mother tongue. So if you find some sentence that sounds awkward, or spelling mistakes, grammar problems or any other mistakes, please feel free to mention in the comments. I am still learning :)
> 
> The telephone conversation between Rafa and Roger is very similar to the one in Eliane's 'Return to Ithaca'. This is because I am telling the same story from Rafa's POV, and trying to keep Rafa and Roger's interactions as close to the original story as possible without doing plagiarism. The whole story will be from Rafa's POV, and Rafa's thoughts and his interactions with other people are my thinking entirely.
> 
> This chapter and the previous one are written in the past tense because these are flashbacks. I will switch to the present tense from the next chapter, when I would describe actions taking place in the present. Until then, enjoy (although the story is a bit dark and sad)!

A week after moving into his new house, Rafa was facing the daunting task of getting out of bed one morning.

This house was on the other side of the island. If he was a new person and had to build a new life, it was as well to start from scratch. He had considered leaving his birthplace and going somewhere else, taking on a new identity, but that seemed too drastic. Anyway, he loved his island. In that other life – which never existed in this world – when he used to be a tennis star, he had to travel the world and had seen many beautiful places, but whenever he returned home he never felt like leaving. A childish thought, actually. And now, when nothing existed anymore and he did not even have his home, he could not bring himself to leave the island. The breath was knocked out of him whenever he thought of leaving. And he had a feeling in his gut that something important was going to happen here. So he found a compromise and set up his new house in a different part of the island. It was still close to his parents’ house and those of his old friends and neighbours, but he vowed not to see them.

What with cleaning and furnishing and everything else, he did not even notice what he ate or when he slept or if he bathed at all. A week went by like that – a pleasant, busy, chaotic week without brooding on his misfortune. But like every good thing, it came to an end. As the last bits of furniture were put in place and the wiring checked for a final time; as the workmen cleared away and Rafa lay down on his new bed, in the bedroom of his newly furnished house, all the weariness of the world descended on him. His limbs felt heavy, his body felt ungainly, and in the morning he could not get out of bed. He had done a fair amount of pushing and pulling and carrying things upstairs and downstairs, but this weariness was not due to muscular soreness; it originated somewhere else. He had dreamt of Roger that night. Yes, during all these months, the thought of Roger was a constant at the back of his mind. Did Roger even exist in this world? And if he did, did he win all those titles Rafa had fought for in the other life? If that was the case, then Roger would not know him. They never would have played all those finals, never would have hugged at the net or chatted in locker rooms…And if Roger did not exist, then, why, he could never have been in love with Roger! And it was precisely this fear that prevented Rafa from searching Roger up on the internet.

It is easy, he told himself that morning. Just sit up, take the phone from the bedside table, and look it up. But as he sat up, his head screamed in protest, his vision blackened, and he lay down again. He could not do this. He could not get out of bed, or go down to the kitchen to have some food. Even the thought of food made him nauseous. He knew what was happening, and he was afraid. This had happened to him when his parents divorced. This was depression.

And suddenly his phone rang. _Let it ring_. But it went on, shrill and insistent. Ignoring the protestations of his entire body, Rafa sat up and took the phone in his hand – and froze. It was Roger. So, Roger knew him, but he did not know in what capacity he was known to Roger now.

He took the call. “Hello”, he said, his voice guarded.  
“Oh Rafa! It is you! Thank god! This is Roger – Roger Federer.” Roger exclaimed in his ear. “Do you remember me?”  
It was a curious question. Roger Federer asking Rafa if he remembered him. Had Rafa not been in love with him for ages? Had he not dreamt of Roger hundreds of times? Was he not dreaming of Roger just that morning? “Yes Roger, I remember you.”  
“No, Rafa. Do you remember me?” Roger insisted, putting stress on 'remember'. And then it clicked. _Was Roger in the same boat as Rafa_?  
“We played so many finals, no? We did so many important things together. Of course I remember you.”  
“You are the only one!” Roger exclaimed. “My family – Mirka, the kids, my parents – they don’t know me. I mean, they know me and I know them, but everyone says I never played – nobody knows me!”  
Rafa let out a breath he did not know he was holding. “Same with me too, Roger. They say I was injured and stopped playing – never played professionally, Google says. It has been a nightmare.”  
“My goodness! What are we going to do?” Roger seemed to be in tears.  
Rafa shrugged, then realised Roger could not see him. “Don’t know. Do you want to come? So we can talk?”  
“Yes Rafa, thank you. I will visit you. Not immediately may be, but soon. I promise. I am glad I talked to you.”  
“Take care of yourself, Rogelio.”  
“Yes, you too, Rafa.”  
Rafa exhaled deeply. Alright then. Roger existed, Roger knew him as a friend, they had each other in this world. Rafa could live with that. Yes, he would live.

The most important thing one needed to live was food, and Rafa found he had almost nothing in his fridge or kitchen cupboards to fix a decent meal. He still did not feel like cooking. In that other life, when he used to be an athlete (he came to think of it as ‘the other life’), some days when his stomach decided to betray him, he lived on fruits and seeds and lot of water. Easier to digest, and no cooking required. Rafa bathed, dressed and went to the fruit and vegetable market. He could do his grocery shopping for the week too.

It was the first time Rafa was doing his shopping alone. In the other life, his mother or sister or some of his friends would be with him. They did everything in large groups, and chatted and shouted and argued (very amicably, of course) a lot. It felt strange to be alone and quiet amongst all the crowd and the bustle of the marketplace. Perhaps this was his destiny, to be quiet and alone and sad. He shook this head. No, he would be positive. He had decided to live with whatever life gave him.

Rafa was in the process of selecting a can of unsweetened coco powder when someone shouted loudly over the din of the market - “Hola Rafael!”

Rafa put the can back on its shelf. His hands balled into fists. It must be one of his friends from the other life, because he had not made any new acquaintances. _Why!_ He was trying to forget it all, he was trying to move on! _Why did they have to intrude?_ “Control, Rafael,” the rational part of his brain said. Rafa slowly turned around to see a very young man with messy dark curls and blue eyes walking towards him with a broad smile on his face. Rafa’s fists unclenched. He found himself smiling. “Miguel Ángel, no?”  
“Wow! You remember my name!” There was a lopsided grin on the boy’s face.  
“Of course I remember your name!” Rafa had to shout to make himself heard. “You –“, he stopped, embarrassed. He was going to say ‘you saved my life’, but the circumstances were – well, embarrassing, to say the least. Miguel Ángel must have thought Rafa was trying to commit suicide.  
Miguel Ángel noticed his plight and quickly changed the subject. “What are you buying?”  
“I was trying to select one of these powders when you distracted me,” Rafa said, and stopped again. What had he just said? _Distracted?_ He let it go. He had said it innocently.  
“You make your own chocolate?” Miguel Ángel sounded surprised.  
“I like cooking, and I don’t like milk…..you can buy chocolates without milk, I know, but sometimes I like to make my own things –“ Rafa finished lamely.  
“Wow! You are just like my mother. She loves cooking. Don’t know how she manages the time with her job schedule and everything. She wants to try this new recipe and I am buying these stuff for her.” Miguel Ángel showed him the large bag he was holding. And then said suddenly, “Do you want to come and drink some coffee with me?"  
“What?” Rafa was baffled. _Was Miguel Ángel inviting him to his house, or - ?_  
“Sorry, didn’t mean to ask like that.” Miguel Ángel blushed. “I am tired after all this shopping. You see, my mother generally does these things, but she says now that I am an adult, I need to learn to take care of myself.”  
“How old are you?” Rafa asked, and was again embarrassed. It was not nice to ask somebody’s age on first meeting.  
Miguel Ángel did not seem to mind. “Oh, I turned eighteen two days ago.”  
“Happy birthday!” Rafa exclaims. “I would like to sing the birthday song, but -”  
“Please don’t!” Miguel Ángel seemed horrified.  
“Easy, kid! I won’t. By the way, I had thought you were older,” Rafa said.  
“Why? Do I look older than my age?” Miguel Ángel frowned in mock anger, and the lopsided grin was back on his face.  
“No,” Rafa said hurriedly. “You were drinking that night, so I thought – anyway, my mother would never have allowed me to drink when I was a minor.”  
“I didn’t ask for my mother’s permission, no?” Miguel Ángel laughed. “And I am sure neither did you. How old were you when you first drank alcohol?”  
“I won’t tell you. It will be bad example.” Rafa said seriously. They both laughed. Then Miguel Ángel said, “Are we having this coffee or not?”  
“Let me finish my shopping, then we can go,” Rafa answered.  
“Oh, yes! Show me how to shop! I need to learn!” Miguel Ángel exclaimed.  
I am still learning, child, Rafa said in his mind. He did not say it out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Rafa likes the 'fruitarian diet' to sort out his stomach problems (I do it two days every month as a purge :)). If anyone knows, please tell me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger visits Rafa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the present. However, there are some flashbacks here too, because a lot of back and forth is going on in Rafa's mind - he remembers the first time Roger came to see him, and all that. He has a wonderful memory, and he compares and contrasts a lot.
> 
> A little depressing at places, but there is nothing that warrants a chapter warning.

Rafa looks at the clock and panics. Roger will be here in twenty minutes and he has not finished cooking yet. Every time Roger comes, Rafa completes all housework hours before, then bathes and changes into fresh clothes and waits, like a lover in stories (the thought makes Rafa laugh). Should not have spent the whole afternoon daydreaming, Rafael, you moron, he curses himself. Time never returns. And who knows it better than Rafa anyway!

Rafa has been thinking of the first time Roger arrived at his door. He had expressly forbidden Rafa to pick him up from the airport, and in order to ensure Rafa obeyed that order, had not informed him the time of his arrival. Rafa could have waited all day at the airport, but he had to cook something to feed Roger. He tried to keep himself busy throughout the morning, cleaning his already clean house and cooking a lot, because if he sat down he fidgeted. What if Roger changed his mind at the last moment and did not come? Rafa had reason for such misgivings. After their first phone call, in which Roger promised to see him soon, he had gone silent. Not a single call, not even a text! Rafa had considered calling Roger, but his anger and his feeling of being used had prevented him. He himself was depressed, and was trying to come to terms with what had happened. He needed a support system. He needed Roger, but apparently Roger did not need him. _Roger has a support system_ , Rafa told himself sternly. He has his wife and kids. _He has a family_. Whenever this arose in his mind, Rafa had to fight with himself. _I have a family_ , he would fume inwardly. There was his mother and sister, and his father too, although he did not live with his mother anymore. And there were his uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents – a large extended family. He knew them all. They did not know _him_ at all. Was a wife, who was not related to one by blood, a better support than one’s blood relations in dark times? Did blood count for nothing? Could he have been in less pain if he had a partner? These were dangerous thoughts.

Rafa was in a foul mood for days when he received Roger’s text. _I and Mirka have split up. Can I come_?

Rafa had answered ‘Yes’ and given his new address before the meaning of the message had fully settled in him. Mirka and Roger had divorced! Why! Whatever Rafa’s recent feelings about family and blood and marriage might be, he never wanted Roger to split from his family. Or perhaps he did, deep down. Or perhaps he had wanted Roger so much that god saw this as the only way fit for Roger and Rafa to be together. At this point Rafa shook his head. He is agnostic. Perhaps there is no reason why anything happens. Whatever the cause, Rafa did not feel too guilty. And Roger came the following evening.

The sound of the doorbell ringing snaps Rafa out of his thoughts. The smell wafting from the soup is good; it needs to simmer for a few more minutes. Rafa looks at his clothes. Oil stains on his shirt, spices between his fingers – Rafa sighs. Nothing can be done now. He crosses the length of the passage quickly and opens the door. Roger is on the top step, smiling, his bags at his feet. Rafa smiles back, hoping the smile hides his pain at the fact that Roger would be leaving within a day or two. Come to think of it, Roger never even says beforehand how long he will stay.

Rafa knows what will happen now. Roger would take a step to close the distance between them, then he would hug Rafa with his nose in Rafa’s neck, pressing their bodies together. Rafa would put his arms around Roger’s waist and his chin on Roger’s shoulder, taking in the smell of his hair. Then Rafa would take a step back and would pick up Roger’s bags –

These happen in the exact sequence, and Rafa shouts while carrying Roger’s bags to the hall, “Roger, wash your hands and face and go to the kitchen; we are going to have dinner!”

Rafa returns to the kitchen to find Roger making himself comfortable in the chair which is kept solely for him. Rafa turns off the oven, removes the pot and tastes the soup with a spoon. Roger would like it surely. And the cake! Rafa almost forgot about the cake. He takes the cake and the soup to the table, and lays out plates and bowls and spoons, all the while aware of Roger’s intent gaze on him. What is Roger trying to assess staring at him like that? How much older Rafa has become? How much his hair has thinned? Rafa does not need to glare at anyone like that to notice such changes. He has already noticed Roger’s face is more lined, his hairline has receded more, and his skin is paler than usual. Also, Roger has lost weight – he looks thinner.

“Eat. You are a skeleton,” Rafa says, ladling soup into a bowl and placing it in front of Roger. He gives Roger two large pieces of the cake, some fruit, and also a few little blocks of his homemade chocolate.

Roger laughs, and puts some cake into his mouth, closing his eyes. That is a sure sign Roger has loved this dish. Rafa watches him as he finishes one piece quite fast, then the other. And then he picks up the knife and helps himself to some more of the cake. Rafa has rarely felt such happiness these days.

After Roger has finished his soup, he looks up at Rafa. He gestures towards the empty plate – he has eaten even the crumbs – and says, “What is this dish?”  
“Torta Caprese. Italian cake.” Rafa answers. “I made it with whole wheat.”  
“It was amazing! You cook so well!”  
“Really?” Rafa beams with happiness. “May be I will make it again, when you come next time, no?”  
“No!” Roger exclaims. It falls harshly on Rafa’s ears. His joy of a few moments before is vanishing quickly. Perhaps looking at the pained expression on his face, Roger adds in a softer voice, “I want something new the next time. You see, this is the only place where I can eat new dishes every time. And home food too…”  
Rafa cannot accept this easily. If only Roger stayed here, he could have eaten good food every day. Rafa would not want anything from him. He ventures, “If you would come more -” He does not finish the sentence. He knows where this is going. It happens every time. Whatever Rafa may say or do, Roger will never stay.

Roger eats the chocolates in silence, then tries to change the subject. “Come on, let’s go down to the sea. I missed it, I swear.”  
 _If you miss it so much, why don’t you stay_? Rafa wants to say. _Please, please, be brave and take a leap of faith. Or be vulnerable, and trust me_. But he says none of these things. He is a gentleman, and Roger is his guest. He only asks, “No sea where you went?” This is a safe topic. Roger travels half the year, and stops at Rafa’s house for some rest before going onto his next journey. Perhaps he does not care how this hurts Rafa; how it hurts every time Rafa has to say goodbye; how it hurts when Rafa has to spend the next six months alone in his house. So it is a safe topic to ask Roger.  
“No,” Roger answers. “Only mountains and lakes.”  
Rafa frowns. Did he - ? Better to ask. “Did you go and see - ”  
“No,” Roger interrupts. “I did not. I went to Austria.”

They walk barefoot down the sandy beach to the place where small waves are breaking at the head of the land. Rafa remembers the first time they walked down together like this. It seemed ages ago. Tonight is a full moon. That night there was no moon, and the stars were hidden behind a thick veil of clouds. The world was in darkness, and so were their minds.

Rafa glances sideways at Roger standing beside him with his arms folded. His hair is all about his face; there is a strong breeze tonight, like that night they stood here side by side that first time. There is two days’ stubble on Roger’s face, Rafa notices. Looks like Roger does not take good care of himself. There is a pained expression on Roger’s face. He appears to be in deep thought. Still, it is good to have Roger beside him. He exists, Roger exists, the world exists; a different world than what they both remember, but that they remember is what matters.

Rafa looks back at the sea. Tonight the waves are sparkling in moonlight, and the world around is painted in a dark blue hue. That night, it was all black. Rafa remembers how they came down to the sea, that first time of many times, as if it happened yesterday. The conversation had started at the dinner table.  
“This is a new house, isn’t it?” Roger had asked.  
“Yes,” Rafa answered. He knew this question meant something else, knew it was bound to come up some time, was expecting it since he had taken Roger through the rooms early in the evening.  
Roger said kindly, “I am sorry. If you do not want to talk about this, it is fine. I understand.”  
“No”, Rafa returned firmly. Never again would he encourage the urge to shut himself away from the world. “I want to talk about it. This is why we are here tonight, no? To talk? But we need wine for this…and the sea too, I think.”  
They sat on the damp sand with a bottle of wine between them, each holding a paper cup, as if it was a clandestine beach party of teenagers. Looking at themselves, Rafa was reminded of a few lines of an English song he had probably heard in some locker room in that other life – ‘All of the astronauts/Champagne in plastic cups/Waiting for the big hero to show/Outside the door he stands/With his head in his hands…’ How appropriate! Rafa laughed mirthlessly. Roger, who had finished his first cup in a gulp and had poured himself another, did not seem to notice. He asked, “So – the house?”  
“Yes”, Rafa answered. “I bought it after -” he stopped. He was not going to tell Roger about his attempted, although unintentional, suicide. He waved his hand and continued, “After it all happened, you know. The other house – too many things missing – trophies and medals and pictures – and too many memories. I wanted to live.”  
Roger hummed in response. “I know the feeling. I also bought a new flat after the divorce. Gave Mirka the house, and whatever else I could. Trying to live a new life.” He raised his cup. “To a new start for both of us, eh?”  
There was a lump in Rafa’s throat, but he pushed it back. No need to say anything. He just raised his cup in response. He had never felt more humourless in life.  
“I tried, you know.” Roger was speaking. “I tried for it to work, with Mirka. I loved her and my kids – I still love them – but look, when the person you married is not the same person anymore, how does it feel like? You change as you grow older, as your marriage grows older, but this is different. I am not the person she married. We were living a lie! I would not have been kind or truthful if I had let that continue. Marriage is hard enough as it is without all this trouble.”  
“I am sorry Roger.” Rafa had finally found his voice, and it was steady. He squeezed Roger’s hand. “At least I did not have a similar problem, so – one trouble less than you, I suppose.” Rafa was always amazed at how much better his English was when he was very serious.  
Roger remained quiet for a few moments before speaking again. “There is your family, though. Your sister and your parents….your uncle – it must be difficult.”  
“Very difficult,” Rafa admitted. “Uncle Toni…he looks at me but it is as if he looks through me….he does not really see me anymore. Mother is there for me but I am not the son she thinks I am, no? Like you said about Mirka – you are not who she married? My sister – she tries to understand, but…no, she is kind, I won’t say anything bad about her.” He added as an afterthought, “May be this is why I bought a new house…”  
“Strange, isn’t it?” Roger’s voice was slurred. “There are people you love and people who love you – you think they love you – you think they will always love you no matter what happens, and then you take away one thing and it all falls down. Like dominos. No, not dominos. Like a house of cards.”  
“House of cards?” Rafa could vaguely understand what Roger was referring to, but the wine was scattering his wits.  
“You don’t know? You put one card on top of another to build a house, and then you take away any one and the whole thing collapses.” Roger made a movement with his hands to describe the collapse. It almost overturned the bottle. Rafa looked at it. It was more than half finished, and Roger hand drunk the greater share of it. Rafa, who rarely drank alcohol, had been slower. Still, he felt a bit lightheaded himself.  
“But you are here,” Rafa said firmly. “You know me, I know you. I am here.” He wanted to add _I love you_ , but did not. He was not sure how Roger would take it. There were a lot of questions they did not have answers to. Rafa believed he had made his peace with the world and this new life and was ready to move on, but it seemed Roger was not. Perhaps he wanted to find answers to those questions. Let him try. Roger was not a man to take a leap of faith.  
“Yes, I am here,” Roger repeated.  
“I am glad,” Rafa whispered. He was.  
Roger was so silent that Rafa thought he had fallen asleep, but then he suddenly lay down on the sand, looking up at the sky. His cup flew away, spattering some drops of wine on Rafa’s hands.  
“Roger, are you okay?” Rafa was concerned. Had he drunk too much? What if he fainted?  
“Don’t you think of all the sacrifices you made?” Roger’s speech was heavily slurred now. “Not just the big ones – like ravaging your body – but the small ones too? I don’t know….when you were fourteen-fifteen - spending entire springs and summers playing and training instead of coming to this beach and getting stupidly drunk and doing stuff teenagers do?”  
“What do they do?” Rafa just wanted to keep Roger talking, so that he did not fall asleep.  
“Getting hungover.” Roger answered promptly. “Kissing. Making mistakes, vowing not to do them again, and repeating the same anyway.”  
“Ah.” Rafa’s mind went back to a summer ages ago, an idyllic summer when he got drunk and swam into the sea on a bet, and the salty water had made him throw up. He did not like retching in the sea, but he had no choice. That memory brought a smile to his face. And he had had his first kiss, with a boy his own age with warm brown eyes and chestnut hair. He still remembered the taste of his lips – chocolate and rum. Rafa said slowly, “There was this summer when I had a lot of fun. But then I lost my match, and felt I liked winning more than getting drunk.”  
“But that is it!” Roger looked at Rafa. “You loved winning, and trophies, and people’s love. But now we don’t have all that….we are not remembered, we never existed, and still we did not get drunk when we were kids.”  
Roger looked so dejected, so vulnerable, that Rafa wanted to hold him, to embrace him, to shield him from the world that had hurt them so much, and would hurt more in the coming years. He wanted to kiss Roger, wanted to taste chocolate and wine on his lips. No. _No_. Roger was his guest. He should not do anything Roger did not want. Rafa steeled himself, put down his cup which flew away at once, and lay down beside Roger. He looked intently into Roger’s eyes and whispered, “I remember.”  
“My god! Rafa!” Roger’s eyes were shining with unshed tears.  
“I remember,” Rafa said, voice firmer this time.  
“Tell me how you remember me! Please.” Roger said.  
And Rafa told him.

The soft thump of Roger sitting down on the sand brings Rafa back to the present. How long were they standing there without talking, staring at the sea? Rafa sits down beside him. Their knees touch. Rafa is still in his oil-stained clothes. He would change them before going to bed. He would also ask Roger to take a shower. How can he stay without showering after journeying by plane, he does not know.

There is no bottle of wine this time. In fact, since that first time, they never took a bottle to the beach. The sea, and the presence of Roger beside him, are enough to make Rafa feel drunk. And Rafa likes to think Roger gets drunk on _his_ presence. But he keeps himself from hoping too much.

Roger pushes his hair out of his face and turns to Rafa. “Do you…do you remember me?” There is a lot less desperation in his voice than the first time.  
“I do,” Rafa answers. This has become a ritual among them.  
“How do you remember me?” Roger asks.

Rafa tells him. Rafa tells him how Roger lit up everything with his aura, including Rafa’s mind, when he stepped into the court. Rafa tells him how Roger looked after winning a difficult point, or after losing a gruelling rally. Rafa tells him how Roger looked when he fell to his knees after victory, or how he looked when he congratulated his winner opponent after defeat. He tells Roger how he was his childhood idol. What he does not tell him are the more intimate details, but closer and dearer to Rafa’s heart. He does not tell Roger how fast his heart beat when Roger stood behind Rafa who was seated, reading a magazine while Rafa packed his bag in the locker room, Roger’s breath on Rafa’s neck. He does not tell Roger how his body responded when they hugged at the net, sweaty foreheads pressed together, Rafa’s hand at the base of Roger’s stomach, Roger’s hand at the small of Rafa’s back. He does not tell Roger how his smile as they met by chance at some corridor of a locker room filled Rafa’s heart with warmth that lasted for days. He does not tell Roger how many times he had kissed the very ground Roger had treaded on. He just takes Roger’s hand and sighs. He hopes Roger would understand. He hopes his fingers would convey the feelings his words cannot.

And when it is Roger’s turn to tell Rafa how he remembers _him_ , he chooses to talk about those intimate details that are dear to him. He tells how Rafa, and not he, was the luminous one. He tells how Rafa’s smile during some chance meeting in a locker room corridor filled his heart. He tells how much he liked Rafa’s dry humour. He says how Rafa inspired him during tough times.

Rafa’s heart swells and clenches at these words, and he cannot breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter would be a bit delayed, because I will be away for work the next week. Until then, if you have any suggestion or advise you would like me to follow, please write in the comments!
> 
> The song Rafa is thinking of is 'Shooting the moon' by OK Go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger stays another day; they have lunch; they have a nice evening; and they both mention what they are not supposed to mention. (There are some flashbacks also.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Firstly, I thank everybody for reading, giving kudos and posting comments. These are the things that inspire me. I had to travel more than a thousand kilometres for some work and returned home yesterday evening, but I worked on the fic when I was free, and here is Chapter 4. Please stick with me while I try to finish the story <3
> 
> And as always, I request everybody to suggest improvements and point out mistakes.

Next morning Roger makes Rafa happy; he decides to stay another day. It is not like the first time when Roger stayed for three weeks, still one more day is enough for Rafa. He cannot decide what to cook. He could make palla, he has rice and the necessary vegetables, but he likes to add seafood, and for that he would have to go to the market. That means leaving Roger for half an hour at least, and Rafa wants to stay close to Roger for as much time as possible, because he is going to leave tomorrow morning, and will not be here for another six months. Time slips away like water, however much Rafa tries to hold it in his palms with all his might. And yet he has to go to the market.

“Roger, can you stay alone for half an hour?” Rafa asks as he puts on a shirt. “I have to go to the market for something.”  
“Yeah, sure, why not! It’s not as if I am in a desert!” Roger laughs. “I can watch TV.”  
“Roger, you need some sun. And air.” Rafa says sternly. “Why don’t you go to the garden with your coffee and take a walk? There is some lawn behind the house, and cypress trees. You will love it. I will be back before you know I am gone. Go!”  
He glares at Roger in such a way that Roger gets up. “Fine, fine! Whatever the boss wants!” He grins and puts on his shoes. What would Rafa not give to kiss that cheeky grin off Roger’s face! But he cannot. He is not going to break his own boundaries. What would happen if Roger does not love him? He would never come again. Rafa would rather cherish whatever he has. _Oh! Stop thinking, stupid brain!_ Rafa takes his wallet and goes out.

The morning passes most pleasantly, as Roger tries to help Rafa cook. He is more trouble than help, obviously. Roger cannot peel vegetables even if his life depended on it. He cannot clean the seafood, he thinks those are slimy. He takes forever to wash the rice. “How are you even alive, Roger!” Rafa exclaims, exasperated, as he has finally managed to put all the vegetables and seafood into the rice and place the pot on the oven.  
“I don’t cook like this,” Roger answers. “Mostly I go out to eat, or order takeout. And sometimes I cook pasta.”  
“Hmpf,” Rafa grunts. “Pasta is not a meal, you know, unless you eat it with vegetables - and may be eggs or fish.”  
“I cannot spend my life thinking about food,” Roger huffs.  
 _What do you spend your life thinking about?_ Rafa wants to ask. But he does not wish to destroy the mood. He would enjoy now as much as he can. However, he does not let Roger come anywhere near the soup. Roger, perhaps tired after his morning’s exertions, sits down on his chair and watches Rafa work. During this visit Roger has taken to watching Rafa silently. At first Rafa had dismissed it, thinking he had imagined it, but now it seems several thoughts and arguments are going on in Roger’s mind while he stares silently at Rafa. He has seen it in Roger’s eyes. _Whatever. Everything in its own good time._

Looking at their pitiful lunch at their little table, Rafa’s mind goes back to the family lunches and dinners he enjoyed in that other life, whenever there was some long gap in the tour. That happened rarely; and the biggest meals, both in terms of the number of people and the number of dishes, always took place in the second half of December, when Rafa would be truly on holiday. All the family, including several of those who lived far away, came to their little island during that time. The lunches were the noisiest affairs. There wouldn’t be enough space for everyone to sit at the table, and there would be a fair amount of bumping and elbowing and stamping other people’s toes, until the younger ones would wander away with their plates to the patio or the stairs. Of course the children would leave their cutlery at the table, and by ones and twos they would come to collect their spoons, and would take away with them bowls of whatever item they fancied. And then there would always be a child who would have a fishbone stuck to his tongue, there would be another choking on a morsel of her food, and it would be Rafa’s duty to make sure they were alright. Then there would be a few other children playing with food, and Rafa would have to scold them. One or two of his cousins closer to his age would help him with the kids. Maria Isabel, instead of helping, would stand with her back to a wall and guffaw and tell Rafa that he should have his own children soon. Rafa would flip a finger at her, and their mother would choose precisely that moment to appear out of nowhere and threaten Rafa to break his finger if she ever saw him making rude hand gestures. The lunch would continue well into late afternoon, and by the time it would be over the whole ground floor and the patio would be a mess. The dinners, less noisy and of lesser duration, were a different kind of fun. For the elders would be having a round of drinks after dinner, and some kid would steal someone’s glass, drink the wine like water, and would embarrass himself spectacularly in front of everyone. Or there would be another who would be wailing because she had sloshed her stolen drink on her dress and was terrified her mother would know what she had been doing by looking at the state of her dress. The days and nights were filled with happiness. The days that were forever out of his reach; the days that may not have existed ever!

And Rafa does not want to be at this table for another moment. What is he doing here, sitting in front of Roger! Why did he leave his own people! He should leave at once; leave the house with everything in it – those are not _his_ things – Roger is not _his_ , he has his children, he should go to them; what on earth is he doing here! And Rafa has to run away…anywhere – anywhere to be rid of this awful crushing weight on his heart! He wants those days back. He wants those lunches and dinners. He wants those times with his sister, joking with her, or drenching her with the sprinkler instead of watering her plants. He does not even want the tennis! But without the tennis that life cannot exist; it does not exist anymore really…house of cards, like Roger said….Roger -

“Rafa, are you okay? You look weird.” Roger’s voice reaches Rafa’s ears as if from a great distance, and Rafa blinks and sits up straighter.  
“Rafa - ?” Roger begins again, but Rafa interrupts. “I am alright, Rogi. Just thinking of old times.”  
Roger, the good soul, looks at the expression on Rafa’s face and tries to distract him from gloomy thoughts. “Why have you put all the fish stuff in the rice, and made the soup with vegetables only?”  
Rafa tries to forget his thoughts of a few moments earlier. Those were terrible thoughts. He would do anything for Roger. He tries to answer in a steady voice, “The rice is palla made with seafood and vegetables. Remember the name, Roger, it is our famous dish. Supposed to be cooked in wood fire and eaten directly from the vessel in which it is cooked.”  
‘But why no fish thing in the soup!” Roger exclaims.  
“Because the rice contains the seafood. How can you contrast the tastes if you put the same thing in every dish?” Rafa tries to explain.  
Roger shakes his head. “I would have put the seafood in both dishes.”  
“You would never learn cooking, Rogi.”   
“I am trying! Only, it is very difficult to learn. For example,” Roger takes some soup in his spoon, “what are these fried seedlike things in the soup?”  
“Sunflower seeds,” Rafa answers without looking at it. They are not in the original recipe, but they add some crunchiness to the soup, and they are good for your health. They contain minerals.”  
“You know, Rafa,” Roger leans back in his chair and says, “You should open a restaurant. You would have new dishes every month – you are a good experimenter – and you already make your own cookies and chocolates. You can also make your own wine.”  
“I am not an authority on wine, Rogi. May be you can be my partner.” Rafa laughs, and adds quickly, “In the restaurant business. You know wine, no?”  
“If you give me chocolates any time I want, then certainly!” And the lunch ends in light banter and good spirits.

 

Rafa does not like to see Roger settling down in front of the TV for the entire evening. They should be watching each other’s faces instead of the television screen, as this would be the last time they can be together in six months. And he does not like the fact that Roger spends so much time inside the house instead of enjoying the Mediterranean air. It is Rafa’s duty, as the host, to take Roger outside. He sits down beside Roger and nudges him with his elbow. “I have a surprise for you,” he announces.  
“Eh?” Roger turns his head. “What is it?”  
Rafa raises an eyebrow. “I thought you knew English. What is the meaning of surprise?”  
“Oh, right.” Roger exhales and looks at Rafa’s clothes. Rafa is dressed fit to go outside. Seeing this, Roger’s face falls. “Does this surprise involve going somewhere?”  
“Don’t you like to enjoy a bit, Rogi?” Rafa exclaims.  
“I am enjoying myself quite well, being with you and -” Roger stops and lowers his eyes. Rafa can see a deep blush spreading on his face. _Roger likes being with me, he likes being with me_ ….the thought dances in his head. Rafa knows he too is blushing. “We are going to a nice place, Roger. Please get ready.” With these words Rafa gets up and almost runs to the kitchen. He needs some time to control his mind and his body, and his kitchen is his safest refuge.

When they finally go out Rafa finds he is not in a better control of himself. Roger is in a nicely fitting white shirt and wonderfully cut black trousers. The evening is somewhat warm and humid, and Roger’s shirt is a bit wet with sweat and sticking to his back. Rafa has a hard time taking his eyes off it. And he finds a greater attraction awaiting him in the form of a thin line of sweat on Roger’s upper lip. Rafa would love to lick that sweat off – What? Rafa returns to his present uncomfortable situation with a jolt. They are in a busy crossroad and it would not do to be aroused in such a public place. Rafa concentrates his entire mind on crossing the road, repeating ‘ _Do not look at Roger_ ’ in his head.

The small, old-fashioned coffee shop is in a side street. Rafa glances at Roger as he nears the wooden doors. Roger is looking up at the signboard. Does he think Rafa has ‘taken him out’, as they say in English? Rafa shrugs to himself. _If he thinks so, let him_. It is a lot better than sitting in front of the TV and getting bored.

Rafa holds the door open for Roger. Roger smiles at him and gets inside. If he is thinking this is a date, he is not showing his thoughts. The proprietess, a middle-aged woman with greying hair, smiles and nods at Rafa as she looks at Roger. Rafa blushes, and waves at her to hide his sudden embarrassment. He makes his way to the back of the room to his favourite table, Roger following him. He pulls out a chair gallantly and helps Roger sit. Roger laughs. “You are so kind, good sir!”  
“Don’t be silly, Rogi. What you want to have? See the menu.”  
Roger takes up the menu, groans, and puts it down. “Oh hell! It is all in Spanish!”  
Rafa claps a hand to his forehead. “Oh, sorry! I forgot! You want coffee with milk, no? And try the cookies. Wonderfully baked, contain no refined flour, and there are different varieties – some with nuts in them, too. Good for your stomach.”  
Roger raises his eyebrows. “Since when did you become so serious about your stomach?”  
Rafa smiles. “I was always serious about my stomach, Rogi.”

But ‘always’ means remembering the past; and remembrance is painful. Rafa frowns and busies himself with the glass of water the waiter has put in front of him, on the table.  
Rafa orders while Roger sips some water and looks around. There is a look of approval on his face as he observes the high ceiling, the wooden rafters and the tall windows. “This is a quaint place, Rafa.”  
Rafa leans forward. “Look Roger, if you wish to speak like an English dictionary better gift me one, so I know what you are talking about. Whatever quaint means?”  
Roger starts to laugh, but at that moment the waiter appears with their order and Roger has to stop. He takes a sip from his coffee and exhales contentedly. “Wonderful. This is a nice place, Rafa. Did you know this place before, or - ”. He stops and hangs his head. Rafa can see the guilt in his eyes.

They have an unsaid, unwritten rule not to speak of their vanished lives except on the first night of Roger’s visit. Today, they have both made the mistake of mentioning precisely what they were not supposed to mention. Are they letting their guard down, now that they have become more comfortable about being close to one another in confined spaces? Rafa vows not to repeat the same mistake today. He answers as if nothing has happened, “No, after. I came here with - ” he stops. His voice chokes on Miguel Ángel’s name.  
“With?” Roger nudges.  
“With a kid from the neighbourhood.” And what was Miguel Ángel, if not a little more than a child?  
“I should be thanking the kid, then,” Roger says as he chews his cookie, spraying crumbs on the table.  
Rafa purses his lips. “You should keep your mouth closed when you eat, Roger.”  
Roger says with mock-seriousness, “Rafa Nadal, you are becoming a ‘scold’, as the Englishmen say.”

But thereafter he closes his mouth and concentrates on his coffee. He calls the waiter and orders another plate of cookies – with chocolate chips. _So self-assured, as always_ , thinks Rafa. He winks at Roger, who smiles. Rafa chews his plain cookie slowly and looks up. The marks on the ceiling have not changed a bit. The proprietess also looks the same, may be a few more grey hairs here and there, a few more lines on her face; but she is in the type of dress she always wears – a light coloured blouse and a printed skirt. This place has not changed at all since Rafa first came here with Miguel Ángel, both of them laden with groceries. After all the heat and light and noise outside, Rafa’s eyes and ears were soothed as they sat at the very same table at the back of the room, sipping black unsweetened coffee. Miguel Ángel chatted happily, and within minutes Rafa had come to know that his mother was originally from Barcelona, she was a nurse here at the local hospital, and her son was just starting university and loved history. For some time Rafa had listened with an occasional hum of assent, and does not remember why he had said to the boy, “I have an uncle who is your namesake.”  
“Oh, really?” Miguel Ángel was very interested. “Can I see him?” As Rafa looked into his eyes, he blushed. “I always say the wrong things, in the wrong way. I only meant we can be friends now, and our families can be friends too?”  
Rafa nodded and said, “We can definitely be good friends, Miguel Ángel, but not our families, I am sorry.”  
Miguel Ángel fell silent. Rafa said by way of explanation, “I don’t get on very well with my family.” He had decided to stop at that, but everything came spilling out of him – how his life had vanished in one morning, how he felt uprooted and drifting away in a sea of darkness. When he finished, Miguel Ángel did not laugh or call Rafa mad. He seemed very thoughtful. “You know, some cosmologists say there are parallel universes, and there are versions of us in each one of them. May be some universe overlapped with yours and your versions got exchanged – ”  
Rafa interrupted, “I thought you are a student of history!”  
“But I like a lot of things. I can lend you some books, you can read for yourself – you may understand why it happened to you particularly.”  
Rafa refused. They sipped their coffee in silence for some time before Miguel Ángel said, “I can understand you miss it all awfully, Rafael. I won’t say I can feel your sorrow, because it did not happen to me. But if you need help, any kind of help, please don’t hesitate to ask me.” He reached out and patted Rafa’s left arm resting on the table.  
Rafa felt a lump in his throat. He must not cry there, in public. He took a few moments to compose himself, then said almost inaudibly, “You know what I miss most? The desire to win, the excitement – and all my friends from that life. And my family does not know me anymore.”  
Miguel Ángel’s eyes glistened; there were tears behind the lashes. “You cannot give up on life, Rafael! We have only one life. You can make it meaningful in other ways. I know I sound preachy, I know you are thinking ‘Easy for him to say, he is not going through this’! But believe me, Rafael, self-pity won’t help. Depression won’t help. Love life, Rafael. Love yourself! I am a lot younger than you, and I don’t know anything, but my father dumped us when I was a kid and – I know that is very different from your situation, but I want to say we all have our sorrows. Don’t drown in sorrows, Rafael. Life is worth living.”  
Tears fell from Rafa’s eyes; he could not stop them. He gently squeezed Miguel Ángel’s hand. He had gained a friend on that hot dusty afternoon.

And that evening, he talked to his mother for the first time since moving out. It was little over a week since they last saw each other. Earlier, it would have been unthinkable. But the unthinkable had happened, Rafa’s life had vanished, and he could not go back to his family that did not accept his reality before he could destroy his own inner demons. He did not enter his former home. He only stood at the doorway and spoke to his mother for barely five minutes. He asked after his sister’s wellbeing, but did not want to see her. He did not even enter into the hall, despite his mother’s pleas and tears. He hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do to set anything right when everything in his world had gone wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa has some revelations about himself, and a new idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! This chapter has been delayed unexpectedly because - life happens! Also, I knew what to write in this chapter, what to include and what not to, but somehow it has become quite long although nothing much happens. Don't know what this says about me as a writer. Please share your thoughts in comments.
> 
> Before you begin, I would say we are back to the beginning, I mean, where this story started, with Rafa waking up late after Roger has left.

The sun is on Rafa’s face, but he does not wish to get out of bed. He knows he is late - later than usual. There is a slight ache in his temples and behind his eyes, consequence of a sleepless night. Roger left in early morning. “I leave tomorrow, Rafa,” he had said suddenly at dinner last night. “I have booked the ticket; my flight is very early. Drag me out of bed if you have to.” Rafa had nodded simply. What else could he do? And he has got used to Roger suddenly springing news of his departure on him. Rafa does not expect it any other way, really. Perhaps the day when Roger would discuss his travel plans with Rafa would never come.

Rafa’s stomach rumbles with hunger. His bladder is full, he needs to go to the toilet. But he does not wish to do anything. Surely he can live without food for a single morning. Or a day. Or may be days. _How long do hunger strikers go without food? But they do it for a reason, don’t they? Whereas Rafa is just depressed_ …He sits bolt upright. _You are not that person, Rafael. You are not. Get your fat ass out of bed_ , he chastises himself.

In the bathroom Rafa splashes cold water on his face. He is wide awake, only tired. There are dark circles around his eyes, his hair is a mess; he looks ill. This is how Roger’s departure affects him, every time. It does not matter how long Roger has stayed – sixteen hours, a day, two days, three weeks…it destroys Rafa’s insides every time Roger leaves. And this time, last night, Rafa did something terrible and cannot forgive himself for it. He does not want to think about it even. Sitting on the toilet seat, he makes a list in his head of what he has to do today. First thing, he has to shorten his morning exercise routine. Perhaps he can cut strength training altogether – there is no time for it, and the dull ache in his head would not permit. He would do some stretches. Also, he has to drop his run along the beach. He can use the lawn behind his house for running. The green grass and the cypress trees may soothe his mind and banish the thoughts that last night led him to – _No. He will not think about it_.

Rafa starts jogging around the lawn. He keeps the grass well groomed; it is good enough to make a court, but – Rafa is not sure if he wants that, yet. And anyway, what would he do with a court? It takes two to play tennis. For now, he concentrates on keeping himself healthy. Since that talk with Miguel Ángel in that little café on that hot dusty afternoon, Rafa had put a substantial part of his energy into keeping himself healthy and fit. He did not have tennis anymore, nor his family or his friends from the other life. His body was the only thing he had got from that life; best if he did everything to hold it. He had been an early riser for as long as he could remember, and used to start training early in the morning in that life when he played tennis – that life which did not exist in this world, as he reminded himself every time he thought about it. Nowadays he wakes up even earlier, perhaps before anybody else in the island rises, and goes down to the beach to run on the sand. The shift of the grains beneath his feet with each flow and ebb of the waves demands that he concentrates entirely on his footing and nothing else, and also helps gaining a better balance. This morning run works as his warmup. Thereafter he goes to the gym some days – the gym he had put together in his new house, and spends an hour or more working on his strength. Other days he swims into the sea after his warmup. The water is quite warm in the mornings, and the constantly changing resistance of the waves provides a wonderful strength training method. Few days, like the one this day, he simply stretches. He may not be a professional athlete anymore, but in personal life he is every bit one. And he credits Miguel Ángel for this.

Some days his knee hurts, some days it is his hips, while some other days his foot or his wrist experiences dull pain. Every shot of pain in any part of his body reminds him that the tennis life was real, it existed, but in some other universe forever out of his reach. The scars are bigger proofs. Every time Rafa doubts the authenticity of his memories he caresses his knee with his fingers. The scars are there, very faint, the scar tissues having almost blended with the surrounding skin due to tanning, but Rafa knows where to look. A few times he passes his fingers over the skin of his lower back as well. The scars are more prominent there, and although Rafa cannot see them he knows those discolourations stand out more vividly against his normal skin tone. _What you remember are real, Rafael. Your own reality_. He has never told anyone any of these.

As sweat wets Rafa’s hair and drips down his neck his mind goes back to last night. However much he wears himself out with exercise, however much he tries, he cannot block that memory. He was supposed to wake Roger up at the crack of dawn. He proposed that they both stay awake until the stipulated hour, watching movies or watching the stars, whatever Roger wanted, but Roger wanted to squeeze in a four hours sleep. Rafa, being the model host, had to comply. A little sleep would do him good too. But his body had other ideas. He was restless in bed, he curled and stretched and turned under the sheets, he got up and drank some water and went back to bed, he tried breathing techniques, but he could not sleep. The bed felt hot, the room was hot; Rafa felt feverish. _A shower might help_. His hand was just turning the tap when he understood the problem. He needed air. The doors and windows of his bedroom were open – he always kept them open when he slept, but for some reason no breeze was coming in through the windows. He could stand in the balcony for some time. Or better still, he could go to the terrace and walk a little.

The door of Roger’s bedroom opened in the passage to the stairs. Rafa was almost past the door when he happened to turn his head and look at it. The door was open just a crack. It was another of Rafa’s rules that nobody should sleep in his house with their doors locked. This was a habit he had brought over from his parents’ house. What if someone needed something at night, or suddenly felt ill, and was unable to open a locked door? His guests could close their doors if they wanted, without locking them. Roger always closed the door, Rafa knew. May be the latch was not functioning properly. Rafa decided to check. But his treacherous hand, instead of closing the door shut, pushed it open. Everything seemed blue in the moonlight, which was the only source of light in the room. Rafa stepped into the room, into the almost tangible moonlight, ignoring his better judgement. His body cast a long swaying shadow behind him as he slowly, silently approached the bed. Roger was sleeping with his back to Rafa, his face shielded with an arm. He was in dark cotton trousers, no shirt, and the sheets were tangled at his feet. Rafa looked around. Neatly folded fresh clothes were on the chair beside the bed; Roger would wear them in the morning. Roger’s bags were packed and kept at the foot of the bed. The bottle on the table was half full with water, and a glass was kept upside down beside it. Rafa turned back towards Roger. A bar of moonlight was falling on Roger’s white shoulders. He had moved his arm, but his face was still in shadows. Roger looked so small, so thin! He seemed almost otherworldly, as if some moonlight had solidified to give him form.

Rafa sat down lightly at the edge of the bed. He had stopped feeling feverish, his restlessness was gone; he knew what the problem was. He wanted Roger. He could not sleep, knowing Roger was sleeping only two doors away. And now his heart was beating at twice its usual rate. He was afraid Roger could hear it. _Would he mind, really, if he woke up and found Rafa in his bed? Would he mind if Rafa kissed his shoulder, at the very spot the moonbeam was kissing? Would he be horrified if Rafa turned him on his back and kissed his lips? Would he take Rafa into his arms and let him rest his head on Roger’s chest? Or would he consider it an assault?_ Assault. The word brought Rafa back to his senses. He leapt up from the bed. What was he doing? _Roger trusted him!_ Roger believed Rafa to be a good friend. Roger visited Rafa twice a year, however short the duration might be. Was it not enough? Would Rafa lose it all with his indiscretion of a single moment? Rafa, whose life vanished in a moment! Rafa, who knew the importance of a moment!

Rafa sighs. He feels drained with the light jog; he is sleep-deprived. He does not remember how he had walked out of the room without making a sound. He remembers he had spent the rest of the night pacing about the terrace. He only knows he forgot to close the door, because Roger told him in the morning that his bedroom door was open. Rafa had answered impassively that he would look into it, he believed the latch was broken, while his heart hammered inside his chest. _If only Roger knew_ –

Rafa knows the medieval monk would have purged himself with some torture device if he had strayed like Rafa last night. He knows such weird things, unnecessary things, because he reads all sorts of things in his spare time. Apparently, Miguel Ángel, who has interest in a lot of things, has rubbed off on him more than he would like to admit to himself. In his present life there is more influence of Miguel Ángel who so much looks forward to the future than Roger who refuses to move on. There are times when Rafa suddenly catches himself daydreaming about the young man, sometimes in ways he should rather not. _The vagaries of being celibate. He needs that torture device more than anyone else!_

To add to his discomfort, Miguel Ángel chooses that moment to arrive at the sidegate close to the lawn. Rafa is agnostic, but at such times he believes if God exists he must hate Rafa. However, one cannot go on lamenting like that when there is a guest at one’s door. Rafa approaches the gate with a smile on his face, but his smile changes to a frown as he nears the young man. He looks ill and sleep-deprived, very much like Rafa. And he has come to see Rafa on a weekday, when he generally visits on weekends. What is the matter with him?  
Miguel Ángel is all smiles, however, as he greets Rafa. “Good morning, Rafael!”  
Rafa does not smile. “Good morning.” He opens the gate and lets the young man in. “What is the matter? Why are you not in your classes?” He asks sternly.  
“Please, don’t be angry. There are no classes today. We are on strike,” he answers. “There is a sit-in demonstration going on in the campus.”  
“Why aren’t you demonstrating?” Rafa frowns.  
“I am!” Miguel Ángel replies indignantly. “I have joined, you know! I was up all night, and now those who had a good night’s sleep have come over and relieved us…we have made it a relay thing, so we can continue longer and remain fresher.”  
“Very good.” Rafa nods. “Don’t you need to go home and sleep?” Rafa stops. Would Miguel Ángel think Rafa does not want him here? He adds quickly, “You don’t know how long this will continue. You may need all your energy.”  
“I know. But I dozed off towards morning and – and – I had a dream about you.” Miguel Ángel looks down at his feet, blushing to the roots of his hair.  
“Ah,” Rafa sighs. When men about half your age start having dreams about you, things are _not_ alright. Rafa has to be firm. “You had a dream about me,” he says in a flat tone. “And decided it is the best thing to come running to me?”  
“It was not a nice dream!” Miguel Ángel cries shrilly. His head snaps up and Rafa sees the blue eyes swimming in tears. He feels guilty at once. “I woke up and was horrified…I couldn’t be there for another moment, and everybody had arrived so I was free to go, and I wanted to check on you -” The young man’s voice trails off. A single tear rolls down his left cheek.  
“Now, there, there,” Rafa squeezes his shoulder to soothe him. “It is alright. I am fine, really. Nothing bad happened. Your nightmares don’t come true, no?”  
“Never!” Miguel Ángel exclaims. “And I don’t want this one to come true particularly.”  
“It will not, whatever it is. Now come inside and have a cup of tea.” Rafa guides him down the garden path.  
By the time Miguel Ángel finishes his second cup of tea he is cheerful again. He is excited, talking about their strike. “I know this would not solve all problems, but people should know _we_ are not altogether powerless. And it is always good, talking back to power. What do you say?”  
“I think you people have done the right thing,” Rafa replies earnestly. “We should have control over our own lives, and our future. At least whatever we can have control upon.” _I could not control that my life vanished suddenly. But I can control my present_. He does not utter these thoughts.  
Miguel Ángel finishes a few cookies and two apples and lets out a moan of satisfaction. He stretches his arms above his head and looks at Rafa. “What now?” He asks.  
Rafa shrugs. “I should walk you to your house, so you can get some rest.”  
“Boring,” Miguel Ángel pouts. “I don’t have to go back to the campus until evening. I say, we go to the beach. The sea calms me.”  
“The sea soothes me, too. Very well.” Rafa stands up and takes his keys down from the peg beside the kitchen door. “Let’s go. And I will take you back to your house afterwards.”  
“Take a towel or two with you. Just in case.” Miguel Ángel flashes a mischievous grin.

Perhaps because it is so early, perhaps because it is a weekday, they are the only ones in that particular stretch of the beach when they reach the sea. Miguel Ángel is standing beside Rafa, his messy hair getting messier in the morning breeze, and Rafa is reminded of Roger standing beside him just like that, perhaps at that very spot, two nights earlier. So similar, yet so very different! It is interesting how Roger and Rafa never go to the beach during daytime. Yet, it is beside the sea, in late evenings, that they are most open and honest to each other. _Not honest. Expressive_. Seems they still needed the cover of darkness to open their hearts. Whereas Rafa, by himself, walks down to the sea whenever he feels sorrowful or angry or restless. He loves the sea because it does not change.  
“I love the sea because it is so powerful but it never shows off,” Miguel Ángel says. “The sea is great, but humble. So much force, but the sea rarely uses it except for good.”  
“Really, Ángel! You give such human qualities to the sea!” Rafa exclaims.  
“But the sea _is_ a person to me,” Miguel Ángel replies.  
There is truth in Miguel Ángel’s words. The sea has a gender in Spanish, like all other objects of nature. In fact, like every object, natural or man-made, having life or not. That gives everything human qualities. While in English, the language in which Rafa speaks with Roger – he has to stop his thoughts by force. He does not need to become an authority on linguistics. And he really does not need to think about Roger now. Rafa turns his gaze to the sea, which is especially calm today. He looks at Miguel Ángel. He has abandoned his shoes beside Rafa and walked into the small waves breaking on the sand. “Come on, Rafael, the water is wonderful,” he calls. “I swear I am going in for a swim.”  
“Do you want to stay in your wet clothes and catch a cold? We don’t have any change of clothing, you know. And we don’t have any swimming things either,” Rafa answers.  
“Who says we need them?” Miguel Ángel shouts. He turns around, takes off his shirt and throws it at Rafa, who lets it fly past him.  
“Surely you are not going to -” Rafa’s words die in his throat as Miguel Ángel takes off his trousers and his underpants and throws them away with force. They land somewhere behind Rafa. He tries very hard not to look. _Don’t embarrass yourself, Rafael_. Rafa plants his gaze firmly above Miguel Ángel’s head and says, in a voice he hopes is stern enough, “This is a public place, Ángel.”  
“Who cares!” Miguel Ángel shrugs. “I look nice, I know.” He grins, turns around and runs into the sea. He is knee-deep in water when he calls again, “You are not coming, Rafael?”  
“Of course not!” Rafa is struggling to keep his voice level. “At least one of us has to be responsible. I will just do my morning run. You enjoy yourself - take your time.” _Or I take my time_ , he mutters under his breath. He does not know if he should be furious with himself.

Rafa tears his gaze away from Miguel Ángel’s back and tries to concentrate on the shifting grains of sand beneath his feet. His brain is a mess. _I look nice, I know_. It is not untrue. There is the unusual combination of black hair and blue eyes. And even with the briefest glance at his body before Rafa had turned away his eyes, he has seen that Miguel Ángel is evenly tanned everywhere. Does he lie naked in a boat floating in the sea in mornings, getting tanned? Rafa tries to get rid of the image that has suddenly sprung up in his mind. The rational part of his brain admonishes him mercilessly. _You call yourself a gentleman! You want people to trust you!_ Rafa is overwhelmed by all revelations to the contrary within a few hours. He has no answers to shut up his brain. He is agnostic, but he thanks all the gods that there may be for his decision to wear large shorts this morning.

Rafa runs, harder than he had intended originally. He would run till he cannot think. It seems that is what he is doing nowadays, running away from his problems. He does not like to blame other people for his own shortcomings, but Roger is not helping at all. The stalemate with Roger is tiring. It puts Rafa’s nerves on the edge. Rafa likes to believe he is a calm, collected person, and mostly he is, but even the calmest sea experiences storms sometimes. And talking of seas –

Rafa turns his gaze towards the sea to locate Miguel Ángel. He seems to be floating on waves. Rafa slows his pace as his heartbeat and everything else returns to normal. He should have seen this coming. He tries to analyse the development of his interactions with Miguel Ángel. The young man is open and honest, qualities that Rafa likes. He has been a great help many times. In fact, it is because of him that Rafa is standing here today, thinking about him. Gradually he has become an indispensable part of Rafa’s life. _But has Rafa been entirely honest with him?_ For one thing, he has not told the young man about Roger and himself. _What is there to tell? That he loves Roger, but Roger cannot decide whether to love him or not?_ Even then, Rafa should not have lied to Miguel Ángel. “I will be away for two-three days. A pressing matter.” That is what he told the young man after Roger had informed Rafa of his visit. This lie physically hurt Rafa. For some reason unknown to himself, he does not want the two to meet. He is glad that Roger mostly comes on weekdays, whereas Miguel Ángel comes on weekends. _But what will happen if Miguel Ángel suddenly comes during the week, like he did today, and Roger is staying with Rafa?_ It is anticipating such situations that Rafa lies to Miguel Ángel. Rafa knows he cannot keep juggling everything forever. But he is afraid one or both might abandon him if he tells the truth. And what a truth, really! _I love you, Roger, but I find myself attracted to someone nearly half my age_. Rafa laughs out harshly. He should wait until he finds better words.

Rafa finishes running and stands close to the small waves hitting the land, letting the water wash over his feet. He is in much better control of himself when Miguel Ángel finally decides to get out of the water. He is a wonder to look at – beads of water glinting on honey coloured skin, drops of water sparkling on black curly hair – _No_. Rafa raises his eyes, locks his gaze with Miguel Ángel’s, and scolds, “You should be more decent. I am old enough to be your father.”  
“Not really,” Miguel Ángel laughs as he catches the towel Rafa throws him. “You are not that old.”  
“Still,” Rafa shakes his head. “You will find your clothes are full of sand. You would feel very uncomfortable in them.”  
“I am only wearing the shirt, and that also for a short time until – shit!” Miguel Ángel strikes his forehead with his hand.  
“What?” Rafa asks.  
“I left my phone in your kitchen,” Miguel Ángel answers. “We have to go back to your house.”  
Once Miguel Ángel is in Rafa’s house and is reunited with his phone, Rafa cannot send him away without lunch. “Look, it is quite late. Would it be possible for you to have lunch here?”  
“Just let me inform my mother.” Miguel Ángel talks briefly on phone before turning to Rafa. “She is at the hospital, says no problem. What are we cooking?”  
“ _We_ are not cooking, _I_ am,” Rafa answers. “You are going to take a bath - get rid of the sand and salt.”

Rafa cannot decide to which bathroom he should take Miguel Ángel. The downstairs bathroom is okay, but after this morning’s exhibition it would be better to show him a more private one. He takes him upstairs. The first room to the left is the guest bedroom, which in Rafa’s mind is Roger’s bedroom. Although it has an attached bath, Rafa cannot take Miguel Ángel there; it is Roger’s private place. Rafa walks down the length of the passage and ushers Miguel Ángel in his own bedroom. “Go through that door – the bath is there. You will find towels, whatever you need, in the shelves outside. Soap and other stuff – in cabinets inside the bathroom. You bathe, dress and come to the kitchen.”  
“Oh, yes, I will dress, I promise.” The wicked grin is back on Miguel Ángel’s face.  
‘Don’t be daft,” Rafa scolds. “There is a basket in the bathroom – keep your wet clothes there. They will be washed and returned to you.”  
“You don’t have to,” Miguel Ángel says in a small voice.  
“My house, my rules.” Rafa shrugs and walks out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Once Rafa is in the kitchen, he tries to calm down. His heartbeat has slowed, but his brain is a mess. _Why did you ask him to stay?_ The rational part of his brain demands. The other part evades a direct answer. _I have no motive_. Nowadays, Rafa finds that the two voices in his brain are constantly at war with each other. In the other life, in which Rafa played tennis, the two voices used to collaborate and analyse every situation – each point, each shot, each serve – and their conversations really helped. Nowadays, those two voices no longer collaborate. They just shout at each other, each trying to dominate the other, never allowing Rafa to take a quick decision. But while such battles are raging inside Rafa’s head, he can dice an onion or cook a dish or run five kilometres properly, without injuring himself, as if his body can do these chores independent of his mind. Like at present. By the time Rafa hears Miguel Ángel coming down the stairs, he has cooked a light meal without having consulted his brain. He rearranges the chairs and pushes Roger’s chair against the wall so that Miguel Ángel would not sit on it. He finishes arranging plates, bowls and glasses on the table before Miguel Ángel walks in.

Looking at him, Rafa is stilled for a moment. Miguel Ángel is in Rafa’s clothes. Rafa is wider about the shoulders, and taller too, so the white t-shirt that the young man has chosen to wear seems like a jacket on him. The combination of white shirt and dark blue shorts is perfect on his skin. Rafa can also smell his perfume on the young man. “You look -” _cute_ was almost out of Rafa’s mouth when he stops. _Cute? Really? What about ‘I have no motive’?_ The two parts of his brain are back at their war. Rafa ignores them and continues, “You look fresher. Now take a seat and have some food.”  
“You are a wizard, Rafael!” Miguel Ángel exclaims. “How have you managed to cook all this in such a short time?”  
“It is nothing, really. Please.” Rafa gestures towards the chair. Miguel Ángel chatters while he eats, Rafa only hums in assent once or twice. His mind is not present at the lunch. His body eats very little.  
As Miguel Ángel helps with the dishes (despite Rafa’s protestations), he says, “Rafael, I don’t want to go home. I actually told my mother I won’t return today. Please let me stay for one or two hours.”  
“Definitely,” Rafa answers at once. He is a little uncomfortable, but that is not the boy’s fault. Miguel Ángel’s presence is overwhelming him. Looking at the young man wearing his clothes, something tries to uncurl in Rafa’s stomach, but he ignores it steadfastly. He cannot understand what the matter is with him today. Perhaps things would be better in an open space. “Let us go to the lawn,” he proposes.

Rafa sits on a stone bench while Miguel Ángel takes a look at his plants and then starts rolling on the smooth green lawn. Rafa knows there will be stains of grass on the white t-shirt, but he does not mind. He makes a mental note to tell Miguel Ángel not to wash those clothes, because he is certain that work will be done by the boy’s mother, and he does not want to increase her burden. He looks at the grass. _Nice enough to make a court_. He is startled when Miguel Ángel expresses the same thought. “Hey Rafael, your lawn will make a nice tennis court!” Then he probably remembers what the word ‘tennis’ reminds Rafa, and he bites his lip guiltily. “I am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”  
“Please don’t be sorry.” Rafa gets up and sits on the grass beside Miguel Ángel, who is lying on his back on the lawn. “I have been thinking the same thing for some days. But – tennis is a game of two sides. Difficult to play alone. So -”  
“I can play, a little,” Miguel Ángel interrupts. “My serve is disgusting, though.”  
Rafa sighs. “I don’t know…my serve may be worse than yours. I would never know unless I play. Perhaps I don’t even know which end of a racket one should hold.”  
“Rafael, don’t be so sad!” Miguel Ángel sits up in front of Rafa and holds Rafa’s face with both hands. “Look at me. Everybody knows which end of a racket to hold. And I know you will be amazing. We will play very soon, and I know you would thrash me. Please smile. I did not come here to see your sad face.”  
Rafa does not what to say. He cannot smile either. Beneath Miguel Ángel’s fingertips, the muscles of his face have turned to water. “Oh Rafael!” Miguel Ángel suddenly exclaims and buries his face in Rafa’s neck, his arms around Rafa’s shoulders. Rafa hopes the young man cannot hear the wild beating of his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa gets postcards from Roger. And he gets his courts, and plays for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a long time coming. And it is very long. It went out of my hands and wrote itself. I was very busy, over the past two weeks, with studies. Still have a lot to do. During these two weeks, I made myself write at least one paragraph every day. I hope it is coherent. Please feel free to comment.

Rafa’s sleep is suddenly interrupted by a buzzing noise at his ear. He sits up and looks at the clock. Five minutes past three in the morning. What could have woken him up at such an hour! His eye is drawn towards the light coming from his phone lying beside his pillow. He must have forgotten to put it in silent mode, and some message has arrived. He picks it up, types the password - and there it is, a text from Roger. _I miss you_.

Rafa stares at the words. He knows what those words mean, but does Roger mean them? And what is Roger doing in such early morning – or late night as Rafa prefers to call it? Late night, considering Roger is still in Switzerland. Wherever he is, in all probability he is upset. Rafa calls him.

“Hello Rafa.” Roger sounds tired, as if he has not slept for days.

“Roger…” Rafa is painfully aware his voice sounds heavy with sleep. Also, his knowledge of English is deserting him. “You still in Switzerland?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing now?” Rafa knows what Roger must be doing _now_ – lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, dark circles under his eyes. He does not know what Roger’s apartment looks like, but knowing Roger he can imagine it must be a nondescript thing, with little to no personal effects to be seen on tables or sofas, no photographs of his family on the walls, nothing of note in the kitchen...

Roger laughs a little. “Nothing really. Just passing my days. Trying to decide where to go next.”

Rafa does not know what to say in reply. Or if a reply is even required. He bites a fingernail. He can ask Roger to come, not necessarily to Rafa’s house although he would like nothing more. There are a lot of islands Roger could visit. Rafa takes his chance. “You can go to Tenerife, Roger. Beautiful island in the Mediterranean…the weather is nice, and you said you missed the sea, no?”

“Yes,” Roger muses. “I can visit Tenerife.”

They are silent for some time. Rafa is certain Roger will not go to Tenerife. He is also certain why Roger texted those words, and why he himself called Roger. Only, he cannot say it out loud. Neither of them can. The world is a mess.

“I miss you,” Roger says suddenly.

Rafa sighs. He wants to say _I miss you too_ , but he knows his voice will break. So he says what he did not want to say. “I need to go -” Rafa has to stop. He cannot remember the English for – “To sleep,” he finishes about ten seconds later.

“Yes, sure,” Roger answers. “I would send you a postcard from Tenerife, I guess?”

“Yes, please, Roger. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Rafa. Take care.” Roger hangs up.

Rafa cannot go back to sleep. _Postcards, really!_ He feels wide awake, thirsty, and a bit annoyed. Above all, he is nervous. He is nervous about his decision to ask the engineer to visit him later today, for a design and an estimate for the courts. He has decided after prolonged debates, both with himself inside his head and with Miguel Ángel in the real world, but now that the moment has arrived he is feeling something heavy at the pit of his stomach. Dread. He, who never dreaded to step into a court, is now afraid – _No_. This line of reasoning won’t work. Rafa throws off the sheets and gets out of the bed. _What is done is done. There is no turning back now_.

Miguel Ángel had called on Rafa on a Saturday morning two weeks earlier. Within two minutes of his arrival he told Rafa that the authorities had issued a written promise of meeting most of their demands, and the strike had been called off. Rafa offered him breakfast, but he refused, saying he had had his breakfast at home. They had settled down to tea and fruits before Rafa broached the subject of the courts. “I think I would have a court or two, after all.”

For a moment Miguel Ángel looked like he could not comprehend what Rafa was talking about. The next moment he whooped in joy and hugged Rafa, putting fruitstains on the back of his shirt. “Sorry about that,” he grinned. “Can’t believe you are going to have courts after all. Finally I can practise somewhere, work on my serve.”

“Well, well, let us have the courts first. It takes a long time, you know,” Rafa said. He knows how long it takes to build a court. He knows how long it takes to build an academy, complete with courts, dormitories, kitchens, a hospital, and every other necessary thing, although that academy did not exist in this world. Rafa tried not to think too much as they went to the lawn, at Miguel Ángel’s insistence.

“You said two courts, Rafael?” Miguel Ángel asked, standing barefoot on the grass, looking at the lawn and the empty space beside it.

“I would love to have a clay court too - there,” Rafa answered, indicating that empty patch.

“Great! I love clay. We have a clay court at the university.”

“Then you can help me, I suppose,” Rafa said. “Would it be possible for me to meet the people who look after the university courts?”

“Definitely,” Miguel Ángel answered. On the next Tuesday, Rafa had met them. He got the address of the person who had designed the courts, and met him the next day. He is going to arrive today, in the afternoon.

*****

Rafa puts the grocery bags down on the floor and closes the door behind him. As his eyes adjust to the cool darkness of the corridor after the sun outside, he notices a white envelope at his feet. Had he not looked down, he would have stepped on it. Rafa stoops and picks it up. His address is on the back of the envelope, in Roger’s hand. _About time!_ Rafa puts it in his pocket, and carries the bags to the kitchen. He is a model of calm as he puts the fruits and vegetables and eggs inside the fridge, each in its proper place. _It is only a postcard, no need to get excited_ , he tells himself. It is interesting – Roger never writes him a letter. As if he is afraid of showing too much of his heart too Rafa. As if he would expose himself too much in the written word!

Rafa mounts the stairs slowly and walks into his bedroom. He sits cross-legged on the bed and takes out the envelope. This is a sort of ritual to him, sitting on his bed to look at Roger’s postcard. In this way he feels Roger close to him. He looks at the sender’s address first. So, Roger went to Russia. He is touring eastern Europe this time. Rafa knows there is a lot to see there – large cities, huge palaces, cathedrals and castles, museums with medieval artefacts; imposing mountains and endless plains; and the sun up in the sky forever during summer. Eastern Europe is the farthest one can imagine from a Mediterranean island, except perhaps the sun shining until late in the evening, though it is the case not just in summer; rather all the year round.

Rafa traces his fingers over Roger’s writing briefly before cutting open the envelope with a paper knife. There are two postcards inside – one depicting the city of St. Petersburg as seen from the river, and the other showing a seaside scene. On the backside of this one, Roger has scrawled ‘Not in Tenerife but I still got sunburnt’. Rafa laughs aloud. _Really! Roger has such thin skin!_

Rafa holds the postcard to his cheek. Roger’s fingers had touched this little piece of paper – and Rafa can feel those fingers on his face. These virtual touches are all he has. It did not use to be like this in the other life in which they both played. Roger was not so distant in the locker rooms, or in the courts. Their hugs at the net after every match they played were very physical, at least that is what Rafa thought. And once Roger had brushed Rafa’s cheekbone with his thumb and cupped his jaw with his hand, and Rafa had leaned in and closed his eyes in anticipation, like the fool that he was – like the fool he still is –

Rafa’s eyes snap open. He does not remember when he closed them. _Huh! What was he anticipating this time!_ His eyes fall on the board of postcards on the wall. Rafa installed this wooden board with sliding glass doors after Roger had sent the first postcard, over four years ago. It holds all the postcards that Roger has sent Rafa over the years, from around the world. It is quite a large board, and there is still enough space to hold some more. How long would Rafa continue pinning postcards on the board? On those rare nights when Rafa cannot fall asleep well past midnight, he looks at those small pieces of paper – castles and bell-towers and plazas and mountains looking down upon him from there shadowy heights - and imagines himself standing at their feet, with Roger beside him. Entire stories form and collapse in his head, histories are made and journeys are undertaken in his mind, and they keep him company in those moments of terrible loneliness. Perhaps none of those stories will come true. Perhaps some of them will. Perhaps his future will be entirely different. And at such points of thought his brain gives up and he falls asleep.

Rafa gets down from the bed, two postcards in hand. He pins them to the board with brass board-pins. He looks at the very first postcard he had received from Roger, pinned at the left top corner. He traces his fingers over the lines of the bleak seashore. He does not have to take it down to look at what Roger wrote on the backside. He remembers it. ‘On the Viking trail’. It was from Norway. Roger had travelled from Norway to Finland and along the east coast of Sweden, and from there had sailed to Denmark. Roger sent several postcards from various locations on that journey. Rafa later asked him why he had not visited England or France; his Viking trail was incomplete. Roger simply answered he did not have time, six months were almost over, he had to visit Rafa. Those words had made Rafa incredibly happy. But the situation leading up to the arrangement of Roger sending him postcards was anything but happy.

The first time Roger visited Rafa, some six months after their lives had vanished simultaneously, he stayed for three weeks. That was Roger’s longest visit till date. After that conversation by the beach on the first night, they both took pains not to mention the reason Roger was there in the first place. Rafa cooked most days; Roger tried to help, and as usual made a mess of things. In the mornings they took long walks along the beach or through small streets to deserted parks or to some fountain. A few days they hired a boat and spent the afternoon fishing in the coastal waters; that is, Rafa held a fishing rod and stared at the rippling surface of the sea while Roger tried to read a book until he was forced to stop because the reflected sunlight dazzled his eyes. Sometimes, especially in the evenings, Rafa took Roger to some of his favourite eating places – a rooftop café, a small Chinese place, a mobile eatery run by a Bangladeshi man that served wonderful fish dishes…They spent many late evenings in the garden or the second floor balcony, drinking coffee and talking about small things…

But it was not always that easy, being so close to Roger, in enclosed spaces like the kitchen or the drawing room, or even seated at a table in a restaurant, and not thinking about tennis. Images of Roger in Rafa’s mind were so inextricably linked with tennis that at times it was difficult to separate the person in front of him from the person in his memories of a vanished life. One morning, when Roger came into the kitchen after bath, Rafa was reminded how he had encountered this ‘Roger after a bath’ so many times in locker rooms around the world – drops of water falling from his damp hair and wetting his shirt at his shoulders. And Rafa had to run away to his bedroom to weep for everything he had lost. He had to disappear like this several times – sometimes to his own room, sometimes to the beach, sometimes among his cypresses. And when Roger disappeared at times and reappeared hours later, or when he refused breakfast and remained confined in his room until noon, Rafa understood his emotions perfectly.

Then there was that other thing that Rafa had to control, the thing that they both felt and understood but had never acknowledged to one another. In fact, Rafa was not even sure what Roger thought about it. Rafa knew what _he_ thought about it; it was love. Not simple attraction, but love, since the very first time they met, in that other life. It was never difficult for Rafa to name it in his mind. But he had never even breathed the name to Roger, not even when he felt weakest and wanted Roger’s arms around himself with such a want that his mind and body detached. And after Roger got married and had his first children – the twin girls Rafa adored as if they were his own children – Rafa had pushed that desire to the back of his mind and concentrated on trying to be the very best friend a man can wish for. Also, Rafa had his own life – his family and his friends, his cooking and fishing and gardening. Slowly, as the years progressed, they met less and less at finals; and although they met in locker rooms and practice courts Rafa always hid his desire behind jokes and giggles.

 _But what now?_ Now, when Rafa does not have his family anymore, and Roger has more or less abandoned his? Apparently, things are not that easy now, just as they were not that easy when Rafa was a teenager and Roger was a very young man. There is always some baggage, physical, emotional or psychological. They did somewhat talk about the unsaid thing though, on the last night of the three weeks. They were sitting silently on a marble seat beneath the cypress trees, after dinner. There was a chaste distance between them. Roger was looking up at the stars, and Rafa was staring into the darkness ahead, a dread of the inevitable descending upon him. Although Roger had not uttered a single word about leaving, Rafa was certain of the end of the visit being closer than he feared. And he was proved correct when Roger called his name softly, “Rafa!”

Rafa turned to face his friend. Roger asked, “Have you thought anything?”

Rafa knew what he was talking about. “Of the future?”

“Yes,” Roger whispered.

“Don’t know,” Rafa sighed. “What you think?”

“I will travel, I guess.”  
“Still not tired of travels?” Rafa managed a small smile.

“I would like to do it properly this time,” Roger answered. “You know, not just going from place to place and from hotel to hotel. I would be the model tourist – I would walk the streets, visit museums, bathe in the hot waters, watch sunsets -”

 _Or get conned by hotels, be targeted by pickpockets_ …Such thoughts came to Rafa’s mind. Though he had always travelled with his family, or at least with his uncle, apparently he had more knowledge than Roger about the perils of travelling. Anyway, he knew he could not dissuade Roger by citing such petty issues. But Rafa was nothing if not stubborn. He still tried. “You can stay. There is everything here. Everything you need -”. His voice broke, he could not continue.

“I am sorry Rafa.” Roger’s voice was pleading. And Rafa wondered how four simple words could break a man’s heart. “You see, I – there are some things I need to do. I have to understand…Rafa, please, I never had your courage or your perseverance -”

 _Courage! Perseverance!_ Roger was saying such difficult words when Rafa’s heart was yearning to hear a simple _Yes_.

“I will send you postcards,” Roger finished.

 _Such anticlimax!_ Rafa had a wild desire to laugh, although his eyes were filled with tears. Looking steadily at his own feet, he managed in a shaky voice, “Postcards…so I know you are alive, somewhere.”

“Hey, I am not disappearing!” Roger exclaimed. “I am not disappearing,” he repeated, slower this time.

Rafa knew the time had come. He took it out from the pocket of his jeans. The steel felt cold in his fingers. “Here, take this.” He put his closed hand on Roger’s palm.

“A present?” Roger asked.

Rafa opened his fist and dropped it in Roger’s hand. “A key to the house. So if you come and I am not here, you can get in.”

“Thank you, Rafa,” Roger said. And he left the following afternoon.

A warm teardrop falls on Rafa’s wrist. He needs Roger now, here, with his arms around Rafa. He wants to bury his face in Roger’s chest and cry. _Where is Roger?_ Rafa looks outside the window. It is evening. If Roger is still in eastern Europe, he could be two hours ahead at most. Rafa looks at the envelope. It was posted some days ago. You never know with European post! Rafa takes out his phone from his pocket. It would not harm to send a message, preferably not a serious one.

_How you can get sunburn in Russia, Roger?_

The answer comes almost immediately. _Bad skin, I suppose. Or may be the sun hates me_.

 _Where are you now?_ Rafa types fast.

 _In Prague, chasing ghosts_. And with this message, several ghost emojis.

Prague. The name floods Rafa’s mind with memories. They were together there, for five days, for real. They were together – they chatted, they laughed, they played, they cheered each other – and they were happy. Rafa’s thighs shake; he cannot keep standing. He sits down on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, his chin resting on top of his knees, his hands holding his head. His eyes burn, but the tears do not come. The envelope flutters away under the bed. At that moment Rafa forgets he has to keep that envelope in the drawer of his bedside table, with the others that Roger sent. He forgets everything of this world as he relives those five days that happened in another life, in another world.  
A tinkle announcing the arrival of a message breaks his reverie. Roger, surely. Rafa opens the screen. The message contains nine words, in the form of a question – _May be we can go to Tenerife together someday?_

Rafa cannot believe his eyes. Would those dreams of sleepless nights come true? Rafa types a single word with shaking fingers – _Yes_.

He checks his phone every five minutes for almost an hour, but no reply from Roger arrives. Very well then. That is that.

*****

Rafa tries to calm himself, but his body and his mind are betraying him. He feels hot and cold all over. He shakes like a leaf in a gust as he stands on the gravel path, watching the construction of the courts nearing completion. The path leads to the grass court which is almost complete. The court of red clay is a little further inside. It requires some more work. After they are complete, Rafa would need someone for the maintenance. He could learn something about that himself too. He should. But first, he has to try his hand at tennis. He looks down at his hands. _Surely he can grip a racket?_ He tries an imaginary grip with his left hand. The left hand, automatically, although he writes and eats with his right. The grip feels normal. He tries a forehand with his imaginary racket. No, he needs a real racket for that. _A real racket, and tennis balls_.

Rafa feels terribly shy as he enters the shop of sports goods in the afternoon. He does not know why he blushes when the lady asks him if he needs small rackets for his little children. Rafa shakes his head and looks up at her face. “I – I coach teens – teach them tennis.” Rafa’s own ears are surprised to hear these words coming out of his mouth. Still he continues steadily, “Normal rackets will do. And some tennis balls, please.”

“Sure.” The lady smiles and goes inside the shop. Rafa sits on the stool. He cannot believe he has lied like that. Lies hurt him. Whenever he lies, he is afraid the lie would turn into truth. _Yes. Truth. He can turn this lie into truth_. He should. He must. But he has to look into his serve first. The future can wait a few more days.

The lady returns with a large bag. She opens it and shows Rafa the rackets, and packs those Rafa chooses. Then she adds two crates of balls and hands the bill to Rafa. He pays, thanks her, and almost runs to his house. His heart thumps loudly as he walks down the gravel path to the grass court, the bag containing his newly purchased items in his left hand, his right hand opening and closing convulsively inside the pocket of his shorts.

The grass court is complete with the lines and the net. He sits down on a side, opens the bag and takes out a racket wrapped in plastic. His hands are cold and sweaty; his fingers are not under his control. He fumbles with the wrapper and tears it. _No problem, just calm down_ , his brain tells him. He holds the racket with both hands. It is just an ordinary racket, most unlike the ones that were personalised for him when he actually played tennis, in that other life. He does not know where the tears come from. He does not try to stop them from falling. He only holds the racket to his chest and weeps like a child.

After a long time – or probably only a few minutes – Rafa regains control of himself. He puts the racket down on the grass and takes out a crate. He takes off the cover carefully and takes two balls. Then he wraps up the crate again and puts it back inside the bag, and stands up. He takes up his position at the middle of the baseline, his racket in his left hand, a ball in his right, and another in his shorts pocket. It is then he notices that he is wearing sandals. He does not want to go back inside the house and change into his running shoes. He has waited for this moment for over four years – he has waited for a long time to hold a racket again in this life – he cannot delay that moment any more. He takes off the sandals. It is not as if he is playing a match and has to run about the court. He is only going to serve; he does not have to return. Serving barefoot on grass has never harmed anyone.

He takes up his position, grips the racket, bounces the ball five times, and serves. Net. Okay. That was a start. He has served, for the first time in four years, or more, depending on which version of his life he chooses to believe. He takes out the other ball, bounces it a few more times, and serves again. It hits the top of the net violently. Shit! _Focus Rafael, focus_ , the rational part of his brain tells him. He walks to the net slowly, retrieves the balls, and returns to the baseline. He looks at the net thoughtfully. _There is your opponent on the other side, waiting to receive_ , the rational part of his brain talks in his head. _Or waiting for you to hit the net_ , the other part adds. _Just focus_. Rafa takes his time and serves. It crosses the net but overshoots the line. Rafa puts his hands on his hips and tries to gather his thoughts. No need to panic. It has been a long time; he is bound to be rusty. But he can reduce the number of errors. He just needs to feel the confidence.

Every single nerve of Rafa’s body feels alive as he bounces the ball thrice, raises his right arm high above his head and releases the ball. Within a fraction of a second his left arm has arced up gracefully, and the chords of the racket connect with the ball. The ball makes a beautiful trajectory in air and lands neatly on the other side of the net, just where Rafa wanted it to land. He lets out a shaky breath. He has overcome the first barrier – the most difficult one. Not only does he know which end of the racket to hold, he can also serve.

Rafa continues to serve until darkness descends and he cannot see the lines anymore. Some of his serves hit the net, some go wide, but most of them are good serves. In the weekend, Rafa would like to play with Miguel Ángel and know if he can return as well. As of today, he is happy. As Rafa lies down on his bed three hours later, exhausted and drowsy, he is the happiest man in the island, if not the whole world.

*****

Miguel Ángel is speechless as he stares at the two courts – one rusty red and the other a soothing green, side by side. Rafa stands beside him, beaming in joy. The clay court was completed two days ago. Rafa has already practised his serve on the clay. While serving, he felt more alive than he ever did during the last four and a half years. He loved breathing in the fine dust rising from the court as the balls hit the surface. He has not been able to tell anyone about all those feelings, so he has started keeping a journal. Really, sometimes he feels his head would burst with everything going on inside it.

“The clay court is perfect!” Miguel Ángel has found his voice. “What are you waiting for, Rafael? Let’s play!”

Rafa has come prepared. He takes out two rackets and a crate of balls from the bag he had kept earlier on the stone seat beside the court. Passing one racket to Miguel Ángel, Rafa says, “We ourselves have to be the umpire, the line judges, and ball kids. Remember that.”

“No problem, it is just a set,” Miguel Ángel replies.

Rafa raises his eyebrows. “Just one set? And I thought you are eager to _play_!”

“Very well then,” Miguel Ángel sighs. “Best of three, right? Or do you want best of five?”

“Best of three will do,” Rafa smiles wickedly.

Miguel Ángel’s shoulders slump. “I know you will give me a double bagel.”

It is not as bad as that, but almost. Rafa soon discovers Miguel Ángel had spoken the truth when he said his serve was disgusting. Rafa finally has to let go of the double faults in order to be able to return. Rafa’s own returns are far from perfect. A forehand down the line that he could have put away in his sleep in his vanished life turns into a bad error as it shoots way past the baseline. He smashes a good volley into the net. Dropshot – net, forehand – net, backhand – net. His game becomes better in the second set; still it is not as good as Rafa would have liked. He wins with a handsome straight sets result only because Miguel Ángel’s game is a hundred times worse.

The moment the final game is over, Miguel Ángel walks to the stone seat and drops himself on it. Rafa collects the balls and packs them away together with the rackets before his goes over to sit beside Miguel Ángel. The young man is still panting heavily. Playing on clay is very physically demanding, and he has had to run around a lot. Rafa squeezes his shoulder. “Not feeling well?”

“I am not – used to – such exertions!” The young man answers between gasps of breath.

Rafa passes him the water bottle. He gulps a lot and chokes and coughs. Rafa pats him on the back and says, “You have to work on your strength. And serve. And I have to improve my – well, everything. So, Ángel,” Rafa pauses so that Miguel Ángel looks up, and then continues seriously, “Will you be my hitting partner?”

“I will,” replies the young man.

“Thank you very much. But remember, you would have to help me with a lot of things. I am learning how to maintain the courts, so when I can do the works myself, you would have to share the labour.” Rafa is very serious.

“Whatever you want me to do, I will do,” Miguel Ángel is equally serious.

“And I need your opinion on something else.” Rafa has almost decided on it, but he still wants someone to support his plan. Perhaps, deep down, he has doubts, and wants someone to tell him he is wrong to doubt himself. “Do you think I should open a small tennis academy, for children, sometime in future?”

“Definitely, Rafael! And I will be your first student, though I am not a child.” Miguel Ángel is ecstatic.

“You think I can do it?” Rafa still needs support.

“I believe you can do anything, Rafael! Anything,” answers the young man.

All things considered, Rafa thinks a few hours later as he lies in his bed, staring at the white ceiling, it has been better in some ways that Roger did not start living with him when Rafa offered him that first time. His offer still stands, and will stand forever, even if Roger decides to treat Rafa as a rest stop on his journey for the rest of his life. On some level of his consciousness, Rafa knows Roger will get tired of this one day, or he will, or both. It only remains to be seen who tires first. _And what happens, then?_ Rafa abandons that line of thought; it would not take him anywhere.

His relation with Miguel Ángel, on the other hand, is much less complicated. The young man is very open and honest, and does not hide secrets. There is that mutual attraction, though. Rafa knows it is mutual, because Miguel Ángel does not hide it. Rafa too acknowledges the attraction in his mind, but he does not want to give Miguel Ángel any hope because he cannot call it love. True, he likes the young man, but it is nothing like what he feels for Roger. He wants Roger, he desires Roger, he loves Roger – and he can think of a hundred other verbs all day long for Roger. But about Miguel Ángel he feels protective, like an older friend, or perhaps an elder brother. _No, that is wrong. Elder brothers are not supposed to desire their younger siblings, physically or emotionally_. He wonders what Roger will say if he comes to know that Rafa calls the young man ‘Ángel’. It just happened, one Sunday evening. They were in a seaside café, chatting, when Rafa had exclaimed, “Your name is a mouthful! How is anyone supposed to talk to you?” To which Miguel Ángel had answered, “My friends call me Miguel.” And Rafa had said simply, “Then I will call you Ángel.” The young man was quite happy about it, but Rafa felt very shy later that night. _Why did he have to be different – special - to Miguel Ángel?_ ‘Ángel’ ‘Ángel’, he muttered under his breath, to see how the name rolled off his tongue. He did feel funny in the stomach, but it was nothing like the goosebumps that rose in his arms and neck when he whispered ‘Rogelio’. So, the name stuck. And what has Roger got to do with that, anyway! Rafa is entitled to a life apart from his sort-of relationship with Roger.

Compass. The word comes to his mind suddenly. Miguel Ángel is like a compass to Rafa – showing the direction in which his present life might progress. The oars are still in Rafa’s hands – he may or may not follow the course the compass shows. In fact, all this time it has been Rafa himself who has taken the major decisions – moving out, training hard, having courts, the plan to open an academy. Miguel Ángel has been the catalyst, the moral support, the guide. It is because of Miguel Ángel that Rafa has not drowned in depression. It is because of Miguel Ángel that Rafa has turned around his life and now looks forward to the future. Rafa has forever been self-dependent, including in that other life which never existed in this world. But now he knows how much harder self-reliance is when a person does not have his loved ones around him; when his own blood do not recognize him. Miguel Ángel, to some extent, has filled that hole in Rafa’s life. Also, he has shown Rafa that one can live for oneself. It is because of him that Rafa has realised it cannot be the aim of one’s life to be Roger’s lover. It would be nice to be Roger’s lover, Rafa would be truly happy to be Roger’s lover, but he cannot live his life depending on Roger’s whims and wishes. Rafa is his own man; he owns himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story has crossed 500 hits. This is my first fic in AO3, and my first fic in years, so I am very excited. Thanks a lot to everyone who read, commented and gave kudos! Please continue reading! Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treat this chapter as the lull before a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I am late again. Looks like I would be able to update only on weekends, because of studies and - well, life. Thanks to everyone who has commented, given kudos, and read. Thanks for sticking with the story although I am taking too long to finish it. You are all great!

Rafa puts down the knife and sighs. He has finished chopping the vegetables, and now the chopping board looks like the top of a plateau with small colourful hills, the hills being mounds of the diced onion, garlic, chopped vegetables and herbs and whole beans. All the times Roger visited Rafa, he has served fish and vegetable dishes. This is the first time he is going to serve a meat dish. The traditional recipe of callos does not contain so many vegetables, but Rafa prefers a balanced diet. So, he has had to do some extra work.

The pot of water containing small pieces of meat and tripe has come to a light boil. Rafa drops the vegetables in it, watches it boil for a few minutes, and then lets the whole thing simmer. It will take a long time. _That is the problem with all traditional meat recipes, they take too much time_ , Rafa thinks ruefully, sitting down heavily on a chair. _People of ancient times did nothing except eat, so they had no problem cooking time-consuming dishes_. He turns his gaze towards the oven, where the bread is being baked. Rafa sighs again, and dries sweat from his forehead with a towel. With all the boiling and heating going on inside the kitchen, he is feeling hot. He has abandoned his shirt some time ago; now he is in his shorts only, and still he can feel sweat covering his back. It is January, but here one would never know the season, unless one can associate the occasional drizzles with winter. However, this year it has been uncharacteristically warm, and there has been no rain. Effects of global warming – Rafa can almost hear Miguel Ángel speaking in his ear.

It is Saturday. Roger texted yesterday, with the information that he will arrive today evening; his flight is from Athens. Rafa panicked – Roger coming on a weekend, but his weekends are usually reserved for Miguel Ángel! Would he have to lie to the young man again, and tell him he will be away! What if Miguel Ángel just passes by Rafa’s house, and finding the house open, comes by to inquire if Rafa has any problem! Or worse still, what if he sees Roger and finds out Rafa has been lying to him! Rafa knows he should clear up this situation as quickly as possible, and introduce the two men, but every time he thinks about it, some unknown fear grips his heart. And every time fate has intervened and helped Rafa not take a decision, this time included. Miguel Ángel called last night to inform him that he is going on a historical trip to Sevilla with his classmates and two professors, and will return the following weekend. By that time, Rafa is certain, Roger will be back in Switzerland.

Rafa gets up, opens the oven door, and sticks a thin stick into the bread. It is fully baked. He turns off the oven and takes out the bread. Leaving the stew to simmer for another hour, goes to bathe. When he has returned to the kitchen and added the final ingredients, the doorbell rings. Rafa covers the pot, lowers the heat, crosses the hall quickly and opens the door. Roger falls on him. Rafa, surprised, reels a little, but being strong, is able to hold his ground. “Roger,” Rafa murmurs his name, rolling the initial ‘r’ and pronouncing the ‘g’ as he would in English. He has taken in Roger’s appearance in the split second before Roger fell on him. He looks ill, sleep-deprived, and there is a look of guilt in his eyes. Rafa does not wish to prod him, and anyway he cannot ask, because Roger has pushed up Rafa’s shirt and his hands are all over his back. He closes his eyes and drops his head on Roger’s shoulders and gives in, letting Roger put one arm around his waist and bring their entire bodies together.

After probably five minutes Roger lets Rafa go, steps back, and smiles. Rafa immediately misses the feel of his body, but manages to show his happiness in a broad smile. “Bad flight?” He asks.

“Something like that,” Roger replies.

“Feeling better now?”

“Yeah,” Roger says. “Sorry about that.”

_Sorry about what?_ Rafa raises an eyebrow, but only says “Is fine”. He ushers Roger in, shuts the door and picks up his bags. “I take your bags to your room; you wash your hands and face and go to the kitchen. Dinner first.”

Rafa walks into the kitchen to find Roger in his usual chair, with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. _The very picture of hangover_ , comes to Rafa’s mind. Is it just that? Or is there something else? Rafa decides not to ask. Let Roger have his secrets. Heaven knows Rafa has more than one.

“Is almost complete,” Rafa says, indicating the pot, to strike up a conversation.

Roger looks up at Rafa. “I smell herbs and spices. What is it?”

“Callos. A stew, actually,” Rafa answers. “Is good.”

“Hmm,” Roger murmurs.

Rafa knows Roger is always apprehensive about new dishes, or anything new in general. “It is good,” he insists. “Is traditional.” He does not say he has somewhat changed the traditional recipe.

“I trust you,” Roger says with a soft smile.

Rafa smiles too, and turns back to the pot. His face is growing very hot; he knows he is blushing. _Goodness, we look like two teenagers in love!_ He opens a cupboard and takes out a spatula. He washes it, and holding it with both hands, starts to stir the stew. This is an important part – the taste and texture of the stew will depend on it. And he is still blushing.

He glances at Roger, who is staring at Rafa with his head still in his hands. Rafa knows he has to begin the conversation. He has a premonition that this is going to be important, though he has no idea what it is going to be about. “So,” Rafa hopes his English is correct, “do you wish to talk about it?”

Roger nods, but remains silent for some time, simply staring at Rafa’s hands holding the spatula. Rafa feels a bit uncomfortable. He is about to open his mouth again when Roger says in a rush, “Are there times….are there times when you feel – glad that this happened?”

Rafa cannot believe his ears. The spatula drops from his hands into the soup. He turns around and holds Roger’s gaze. “Do you ask me,” he knows his voice is harsh, “if I am happy that this has happened to us?”

“No! Forgive me!” Roger exclaims, throwing up his arms. “It’s all wrong. Please! I only meant – I mean – there are things we can do now – things you can do now, that we could not do before, you know what I mean?”

_Of course Rafa knows what Roger means_. But he wants Roger to say it, out loud. He turns back to the stew, dips a spoon into it and puts it in his mouth. It tastes fine. “Just ask the question, Roger.” Rafa is glad his voice is no longer hard.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” Roger manages after a few moments. “Is it easier, now that you don’t have to hide?”

“Ah.” Rafa turns off the heat. He brings out two nicely lacquered earthenware bowls from the cupboard, and pours some stew in each, thinking all the while. _Is it easier now?_ Rafa puts two earthen spoons in the bowls. He bought an entire set – with plates, bowls, spoons and cups. _If it is any easier, then why have I been celibate for nearly five years? Why do I not have a partner?_ He carries the bowls to the table. _Why do I feel embarrassed every time I look at Miguel Ángel with lust?_ He cuts the bread, and arranges the slices on two earthenware plates. _If it is easier, then why do I not have you, Roger?_ He puts a plate and a bowl in front of Roger, the others in front of the chair where he would sit. _Why, after this dinner, would we wish each other goodnight and go into separate bedrooms, and you would shut the door, and spend the night alone? And why would you leave me after a day or two?_ Rafa pours water into two earthenware cups, places them on the table, and sits down. “No, it is not easier,” he answers.

Rafa dips a slice of bread in the stew, puts it in his mouth, and chews. Roger is staring at Rafa, as if wishing for him to continue. Rafa cannot look into those eyes. He fixes his gaze on the wall behind Roger’s head and continues, “But was never difficult for me, no? You remember we talked about this once - about the sacrifices we all made for tennis?” He glances at Roger, who seems thoughtful, with eyes fixed on this plate. Rafa looks away; he can feel tears pricking his eyes. “Well, this was a sacrifice, true – but my parents knew, my sister knew, Toni knew, some of my close friends….I had friends. And there was always tennis. Tennis was my love. I was happy.” Visions of his lost life flash in his mind – victories, defeats, practice, fun with friends…

Rafa looks at Roger, who still has not touched his stew. “Eat,” Rafa says, “Or it gets cold and you won’t like it.”

Roger eats in silence for some time. There is a smile on his face as he chews the small pieces of meat. Colour returns to his face. “The stew is good,” Roger says after he finishes the bowl. “Your bread too. You baked it?”

“Yes,” Rafa smiles. “Want some more?”

“Yes, please,” Roger answers.

Rafa cuts him some bread, fills his bowl, ladles some more stew into his own bowl and sits down again. “Why you ask me this?”

Roger sighs. “I have always known that I like men too,” Roger begins, and glances at Rafa. Well, Rafa knew it since a long time. But it is weird to hear those words now, coming from Roger, after all these years, after all the flirting and touching, after this sort of non-relationship for almost five years. Still, he says nothing. He does not nod or show his feelings in any other way. He sits still, with his back straight, eyes fixed on Roger’s face. Roger continues, “But then I met Mirka when I was very young, and then there was only her, and I did not really have to think about it. I mean, there were no hard choices to make, no decisions to take, you know? So I wondered what it was like.”

_What was what like? What was it like to hide your desires and continue doing what you did best in silence? Or what was it like now?_ Rafa decides to try the second option. “Because now there is no Mirka?”

“I – I suppose so,” Roger says.

“And no tennis,” Rafa adds.

“True,” Roger sighs. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Everything is somehow more complicated now.”

Rafa shrugs. “You figure it out.” It is Roger’s problem, really, if he cannot acknowledge his own wishes to himself or cannot speak his own mind. “Dessert?”

Rafa serves his vegan ice cream, which Roger likes and takes a second helping. He tells Rafa about his travels, about the cities, how he lost his way inside the Hermitage of St. Petersburg in his attempt to find the Impressionist paintings, how he loved the baths in Prague, how he walked the cobbled streets in Budapest with autumn leaves raining down on his head, how he looked upon the ruins of the ancient city from the heights of Acropolis. He talks about the rivers he saw and the beaches he visited. In comparison, Rafa’s accounts of his six months are dull, and he cannot give away much about his days really; he is keeping the courts a secret as of today.

They walk to the beach after dinner, but there is no despair while they sit on the sand and tell each other how they remember their vanished lives. Rafa is at peace, perhaps because he has started playing tennis again, although it is nothing like what it used to be before, in his other life. Roger seems less agitated than usual; perhaps he feels he is close to whatever end he desires. The silence that descends between them after their remembrances are over is serene. When Rafa gets up to walk by the silent sea, Roger follows. Rafa comes to a stop at the foot of his favourite dune with palm trees swaying in the light breeze. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the salt-scented air, and turns his head to look at Roger beside him. Roger is looking at him. His gaze is so intense that Rafa has to turn away and look up at the sky. The crescent moon has long set; only the stars are illuminating the world, painting everything a dark purple. Roger leans against Rafa, and Rafa puts an arm around his waist. He can feel the movements of Roger’s body with his even breathing. Rafa’s heart is full, and there is no lust stirring in the pit of his stomach.

After returning from the beach, they settle down on two sides of the sofa in the living room, facing each other, with their feet in the middle of the sofa and almost touching. Roger turns on the television, finds an English movie channel, and gets absorbed in a thriller. Rafa takes his book from the table, opens the page he had bookmarked, and puts on his headphones so that he can read without being interrupted by the sounds of the movie. It is very peaceful and domestic, as if they are two persons who have lived together for ages and can enjoy each other’s company in silence. _If only!_

_I was happy_ , Rafa had said earlier in the evening. It was not untrue. But things were never easy. Honesty is not always the best policy, his uncle had explained to him when he was on the threshold of manhood. It was December. He had turned fifteen a few months earlier; he had been playing professionally for quite some time. However, that team tournament in December was a local one, an amateur tournament for children and teens. It was the final that day, Rafa won in his age group, and received permission from his mother to stay the night with his friends. Javier had invited a group of friends to dinner at his house, and told Rafa’s mother there would be a sleepover. But when Rafa reached his house he discovered that they had an adventure planned and ready. Javier’s parents were away that night, and he and his elder brother were taking them out to dinner at a restaurant. From there, they went to the disco. Initially they all sat at a table and took a few shots; then one by one everyone walked over to the dance floor. Except Rafa. He was a bad dancer, and he was not used to drinking alcohol. He was certain if he even tried to walk, he would lose his balance. So he stayed at the table and watched the young people dancing to the rock music. Soon his eyes fell upon a lean, fair-haired youth gliding around the floor. So graceful! Rafa stared, mesmerised, until the young man turned and caught Rafa’s gaze. Rafa blushed and quickly looked down at the surface of the table, but it was no good. The young man picked his way through the dancers without bumping into anyone, as if he were floating, and within seconds he was on a chair opposite to Rafa. “Good night! How do you do?” The voice was like music in Rafa’s ears. He lifted his head and returned the greeting. The youth could not be much older than Rafa, probably not yet eighteen; his eyes were violet and his hair was a wonderful shade of blonde, and he was very fair with light freckles on his cheeks.

“You are not from around here, no?” Rafa asked. He asked a stranger _that_. Perhaps the alcohol made him bold.

“No,” the youth smiled. His teeth glinted in the many-coloured lights. He explained that he was from Madrid, he was a footballer, they had played that afternoon and won, and he had slipped out of their hotel while everyone was sleeping, wanting to have some fun. “I will return before morning,” he finished.

They downed a few more shots until Rafa’s throat was burning and an ache was building up behind his eyes. Then he suddenly found himself on the dance floor, the Madrileño steering him with an arm around his hip. “I cannot dance,” Rafa whispered in his ear. “Let me show you,” the man whispered back. He took Rafa’s hand and whirled him around. Rafa’s eyes caught the matching tattoos on his wrists. “Bracelets,” he muttered, holding one of the wrists. “Handcuffs,” the youth smiled, and suddenly held both of Rafa’s wrists behind his back. Rafa was surprised by the strength in those fingers, and his eyes widened as the young man kissed him, full on the lips. He closed his eyes and let the man put his tongue inside his mouth. He was quite enjoying himself when he felt a sudden pain in his lower lip and tasted blood. “You bit me!” Rafa exclaimed, horrified. How would he show his face to his mother the next morning!

“It is a little blood, you won’t die,” the man laughed. Someone bumped into them and Rafa slipped. “Come on, let us have some air.” He took Rafa to the balcony. The cold air helped Rafa refocus his vision, but nothing could ease the burning in his throat. “Wait here. Bathroom,” he muttered to the young man and ran into the nearest toilet he found. He put a finger in his throat, and retched into the toilet bowl. He felt much better as all those shots and the dinner came out. He splashed cold water on his face, and returned to the balcony, to say goodbye to the young man. But the man had other ideas. He pushed Rafa against a wall – Rafa could not stop him, the man was heavier and taller, and anyway Rafa did not _want_ to stop him. He kissed Rafa’s throat and bit at the tender skin on his collarbone. _Another bruise there_. His hand slid below Rafa’s stomach, and Rafa’s body _wanted_ it, but he was terrified. He found his own strength, and stopped the man, holding his arms with both hands. “Stop. You are drunk!” Rafa rasped.

“No, please, I like you,” the youth pleaded. “You are beautiful – I have never seen anyone like you!”

“You are drunk,” Rafa repeated. “Let me take you back to your hotel.” He tried to sound as authoritarian as Toni.

The youth still whined, but he was drunk while Rafa had sobered. So he managed to drag him to his hotel – the young footballer remembered the name and Rafa knew the place. The night security guard stared at Rafa as he took charge of the drunk young man. Rafa managed to go home and slip into his bedroom unseen, feeling sorry for not informing his friends. Anyway, he could not. The last thing that came to his mind before he fell asleep was he had forgotten to ask the Madrileño his name.

Horrors were awaiting him the next morning. As he showered, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and his heart skipped a beat in fear. There was the cut on his lip, but that he could explain away, say his fork slipped. But how to explain the bruise on his throat! Or the nail marks on his forearms! Or the marks of five fingertips on each wrist! Rafa sighed, and put on a high-collared, full-sleeved t-shirt. He knew very well that Toni would see, Toni would know, and Toni would admonish.

And so it happened. Toni simply glanced at his nephew in his white tennis top and shorts, took in the marks, and said quietly, “We need to talk.” Rafa trembled as he sat down on a bench and watched the other students leave. Toni sat down beside him; there were only the two of them. “I see,” Toni said softly. “You had fun last night.”

Rafa knew what his uncle was thinking had happened. He probably also assumed Rafa did what in reality he did not do. He said nothing. He could not explain himself, really. He had acted in poor judgement. He simply sat and awaited what his uncle had to say.

“I know it is not good to go against human nature. It is not productive,” Toni mused. Rafa stared. When would the scolding come! “But you must know, the world is not fair. The world you are entering – the world of competitive sports – is unforgiving. I hope you would remember that,” Toni’s voice was very calm.

Rafa nodded. He could not see where it was heading. Toni continued, “You would be forever under scrutiny. Each of your actions would be watched. So take care not to do anything that you would have to regret for the rest of your life.”

“Yes, uncle,” Rafa finally managed.

“Really, I don’t know why this circle does not catch up!” A little heat crept into Toni’s voice. “It is not a crime to like people of your own sex.”

“But – but – how?” Rafa spluttered. “Why – how – how did you know -?”

Toni held Rafa’s left wrist. Rafa winced – those bruises hurt when touched. “It is not difficult to know, really. And these marks…no woman can hold someone of your strength like that so as to leave such bruises.” Toni dropped his hand. His voice was kinder when he spoke next. “I don’t judge you, Rafael. But I suppose you would not want to hear someone say that Rafael Nadal touched him inappropriately while hugging at the net.”

“Uncle! What are you talking about!” Rafa was scandalised. “I would never -”

“I know you would never,” Toni said without raising his voice. “But other people don’t know you. So, be careful, child.”

And Rafa had been careful. He had made many friends, not only in the tennis world, but also from various other professions. No one ever accused Rafa of what his uncle had once feared they might accuse. Whenever he developed some attraction towards anyone, he took pains to know if that person also wanted the same thing. He was extremely careful not to hurt anybody. He was attracted to Roger since the first time they met, but he knew Roger was unattainable, because he had a girlfriend – a most accomplished woman, and probably Roger was not into men. There was someone else, though, someone Rafa could have loved in a better world…

Rafa returns to this world, this reality. The movie is still going on, but Roger has fallen asleep, with his head on a pillow, his lips parted a little, his legs tangled with Rafa’s legs. The sight brings tears to Rafa’s eyes, tears of joy. _One day_ , he thinks, _we will lie on this sofa, and you will crawl over to me when you feel sleepy, and you will put your head on my chest, and I will hold you and we will sleep here. One day. We are on the right path, love_. And the words of the song are his own words:

Un día llegaré,  
No importa la distancia  
El rumbo encontraré  
Y tendré valor  
Paso a paso iré,  
Y persistiré,  
A cualquier distancia yo el amor alcanzaré.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is surprised by the greeting 'Good night' that the young man makes when he meets fifteen-year old Rafa, I must explain that in Spanish, 'good night' is used in the same way as 'good morning' or 'good afternoon'. If you meet someone after, say 8 PM in the evening, then you are supposed to greet the person with 'good night' (instead of 'good evening', which is 'buenas tardes' which also means 'good afternoon'. I know it appears confusing. Don't think about it.)
> 
> The lines with which this chapter ends are from the song 'No importa la distancia' which is the Spanish version of the song 'Go the distance' from the Disney movie 'Hercules'. 'No importa la distancia' was sung by Ricky Martin originally, though while writing this chapter I was thinking of the version sung by David Bisbal.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa shows Roger the courts. And then -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I am very sorry for disappearing for about three weeks since I posted the last chapter. Two terrible things happened to me in the two weeks following the last time I was here, and I could not eat or sleep, forget about writing. And with all that I had an exam, and had to concentrate whatever part of my mind I could gather on studying. Today, I just sat myself down and made myself write this chapter, because unless I did something, I would drown in depression. Thanks a lot in advance, for reading.

Rafa’s eyes open before the first rays of the sun enter through the white blinds drawn across the windows. He can see, rather feel, a beautiful pink glow of dawn behind the blinds. Within minutes his body and mind are fully awake, but he makes no move to get up. He looks at the white ceiling, and tries to relive the experience of last night. Roger was so close…closer than he had ever been even in that other life, even at that moment when Rafa thought Roger was going to kiss him…it is a beautiful day…

Rafa wakes up with a start. The sun is above the trees now. _What? How? How could he fall asleep? Roger is in the house – what if Roger is awake already – has he made Roger fast!_ Rafa jumps out of bed and runs into the bathroom, cursing himself loudly. Today is that day. _The day of what_ , says a small voice inside his head as he stands underneath the shower. _The day to show Roger the courts_ , thinks Rafa, his eyes closed. _And what then?_ Yes, what then? Rafa opens his eyes. He does not know how Roger will react on seeing the courts. During all this time – these months – Rafa forgot to think about how Roger may react when he sees what Rafa has done. Would he be happy? Sad? Angry? Disappointed? Rafa slaps his head. What on earth is he going to do if Roger is angry? What if Roger is not able to cope with what Rafa has done? This is the first time in his life – in this life or that – when Rafa finds himself unprepared for a situation he should have anticipated for ages.

Rafa showers quickly, dries himself, dresses and runs down to the kitchen. One glance at the kitchen table is enough to tell him someone was there before him. There are breadcrumbs on the table, some ground coffee spilled on the kitchen counter, and two dishes lying facedown in the sink. Roger. Roger made breakfast! Rafa knows where to find him. Such beautiful mornings are to be spent outside. Rafa steps into the garden, and there he is, sitting on the grass with two trays in front of him.

Rafa sits down in front of Roger. “Good morning.”

Roger smiles. “It is a good morning, isn’t it? Very beautiful.”

Rafa nods and picks up a toast. “You make breakfast? For me?”

Roger smiles again. “Yes. Try it, go on.”

Rafa bites his toast. “Very nice Roger. You have learnt cooking.”

A broad smile lights up Roger’s face. Smiles seem to come so easily to him this morning. Rafa fidgets. Would he be smiling like this when he sees the courts? Would he say ‘Go on, try it’? Rafa does not know how to begin. He does not wish to spoil the day or his friendship with Roger, but the moment of truth has arrived. Rafa eats are few more pieces of toast, then drinks his coffee slowly. Still, breakfast ends, and time is ticking away. Rafa tries the direct approach.

“I want to show you something.” Rafa does not recognise his own voice, but apparently Roger finds nothing amiss.

“Sure. What is it?”

Rafa cannot speak. He shrugs.

“Oh, it is a surprise?” Roger still does not seem to suspect anything.

“We can go now?” Rafa gets up. “If you want.”

Roger gets up too, and follows Rafa. Rafa puts his trembling hands inside the pockets of his shorts. “Come on, it is on the other side of the house.”

They walk to the cypress trees and Rafa opens the gate. “Come on,” he beckons Roger, and closes the gate behind him.

“I did not know there is something here,” Roger remarks. Rafa does not answer. He is terrified. Roger still follows him. Then – they are suddenly in front of the courts.

Rafa gazes into Roger’s face as Roger stares at the courts, transfixed. His face is a cascade of emotions – hurt, anger, disappointment, despair – as he stares and blinks, stares and blinks. His sallow face is blotchy red when he turns towards Rafa.

Rafa takes a step back and whispers, “I miss it”. It almost sounds like an apology.

“No,” Roger croaks.

_No? What no? Why no?_ “Roger,” Rafa says, voice firmer now, “I miss it.”

“No,” Roger says again. “You can’t. You can’t do this to me.”

Rafa looks down at his feet. _Would he give up now? Would he raise his hands in surrender, and say let us forget about it, and go back into the house? Would that repair everything? Would that take them back to how things were between them until this morning? But why should they go back to it, really? What is there, but just passing the days?_ Rafa looks up. He will not surrender this time. He will stand his ground. He has given away enough space for Roger. Not anymore. He looks into Roger’s eyes and crosses his arms across his chest. An invisible net has sprung up between them, they are back to a court, they are playing a final, and the rest of the world does not exist.

“It has been almost five years,” Rafa says.

“So what?” Roger shrieks.

“I miss it,” Rafa says for the third time, and braces himself for the outbreak.

“My god, Rafa!” Roger shouts. “I know you miss it! You spend all your time cooking and cleaning and gardening as if those are the most important things in the world, and you think I don’t know you miss it? As if I don’t miss it! But how is this,” he points at the courts, “going to change anything? How is it supposed to help, eh? Your family lives twenty minutes away from you and you don’t see them! You think you get a court and everything is going to return to how they were before?”

_How dare he! How dare he bring up Rafa’s family!_ Rafa’s eyes blaze. He is not going to forgive Roger. “You don’t talk to Mirka,” he says in a low, clear voice. “You don’t talk to your kids.”

Roger’s shoulders slump, but he does not relent. “This isn’t about me. Not at all.”

_Yes, this is not about you_ , Rafa says in his head. _Try to wrap your head around the fact that everything is not about you_. He does not speak these words. He hopes his eyes say it all as he stares at Roger, wanting him to surrender. Roger cannot surrender like that, of course. He flees.

Rafa stares at Roger’s back until he vanishes behind the cypresses. He does not know what Roger is going to do now. He had not anticipated such a quarrel, but now that he thinks about it, it was a long time coming. The tension between them was reaching a breaking point since some time. Last night was like a dream. Roger’s proposal to visit Tenerife together was like a dream. Dreams are not real. Dreams do not exist. What exists is that Roger has not been able to cope with what Rafa has done. Last night, holding Roger in his arms, Rafa had hoped Roger is moving on, but it was a fool’s hope. What is real is that after today, Rafa may lose him forever. What if he loses Roger forever? Rafa’s head whirls. He cannot see. He drops to the ground, and with his head between his knees, his hands clutching his hair, he cries bitter tears.

_It does not matter, really_ , the rational part of his brain says, after an eternity of sobs and gasps. _It does not matter if Roger cannot cope. But I do not want to lose him_ , Rafa chastises his own brain. _How can you lose him when you never had him?_ The other part of his brain says. He is the only one who knows what I was. He is the only one who believes the other life existed, Rafa tries to reason. _You forget Miguel Ángel_ , the rational part of his brain remarks. _He believes you, and he never knew if the other life existed. He trusts you blindly_. Rafa sits up straight. The two parts of his brain are collaborating! True, they did collaborate when Rafa practised, alone or with Miguel Ángel, but this is the first time they are collaborating on topics outside tennis.

Rafa draws his knees together, rests his chin on them, and looks ahead and thinks. He should stop wishing for Roger’s approval for everything in his life – be it his cooking or his desire to play tennis. Let Roger move on at his own pace. Let Roger do his mourning and forgetting on his own. If he does not wish to stop mourning, it is fine by Rafa. If Roger wants to leave him, it is – well, not fine, but what more could he lose, really? Probably Roger does not even love Rafa, and his association with Rafa is more of a necessity – a way to keep his sanity, or to preserve his memories. Well, Rafa refuses to be a tool any more. He is a person, and he will move on in his own way. Let Roger decide what to do with his life.

Rafa has a feeling that all these thoughts occurred inside his head another time, years ago. Perhaps he has thought like this hundreds of times, on lonely nights when Roger was in some other part of the world, on lonely mornings when Rafa swam alone in the sea and wishing Roger to be swimming beside him, on lonely afternoons when Rafa served alone under the blazing sun and wishing Roger to be receiving and returning. This is the last time he wishes all these. From now onwards, he will not wish these anymore.

_Your family lives twenty minutes away from you and you don’t see them_ , Roger had said. What does he know about Rafa’s relation with his family! What does he know about how it hurts when Rafa speaks to his mother but does not enter the house where he was born and brought up? What does he know about how Rafa feels when he leaves his sister on the sofa of the hall, knowing very well she will run to her room to confine herself and cry her heart out the moment Rafa is out of the house? What does he know about how Rafa’s eyes fill with tears as he is cooking and suddenly remembers the taste of the same food cooked by his mother ages ago? The tears vaporise from Rafa’s eyes in the heat of his rage. _Your family lives twenty minutes away from you and you don’t see them_. What right does Roger have to talk like that, when he does not take care of the children of his own body! When he does not even try to know if they are alive and well! Rafa does not feel guilty for bringing up Mirka and the children. Serves Roger right, really.

Rafa looks down and caresses the blades of grass beside him. His head hurts. His limbs feel heavy. He feels older than his years, and tired beyond belief. Rage and sorrow have sapped him of his strength. He must calm down. _Forgive Roger. Let him go. Let him be_.

The sun is close to the western horizon and the sky is displaying brilliant shades of red and orange when Rafa hears light footsteps on the path behind him. He knows those are Roger’s footsteps, but he does not turn around. Roger would have to come to Rafa this time, on his own. Rafa will not go to Roger.

Roger clears his throat and comes and stands beside Rafa. He looks up at Roger’s face and tries to get up, but Roger shakes his head. He points to the grass beside Rafa and asks in a small voice, “Do you mind?”

Rafa looks away and resumes his staring into the distance. “No, I do not mind.”

As Roger sits down beside him, their shoulders brush. Rafa does not turn around, or acknowledge it in any other way. He clenches his jaw and waits for Roger to say whatever he wishes to say.

“I am sorry,” Roger begins. “I am sorry I said all those horrible things. I should not have said all that – they were wrong. I do not mean them.” _No, you mean them_ , Rafa wishes to say. But he is too tired to fight. He remains silent. Roger continues, “Look, I – I thought I was doing better…moving on. But I did not expect – it was so sudden – and I reacted badly.”

“Is fine,” Rafa says. His voice is a little higher than usual, it sounds almost artificial. “I am sorry for – how do you say it – pushing you?” Rafa glances at Roger. He looks hurt. _Good_. Rafa wants to hurt him. He wants Roger to suffer as he has suffered. “The courts are not for you. They are for me.”

“Okay,” Roger says.

“I want to teach kids,” Rafa continues. “Is little thing, no? Is nothing much – is not winning slams or being number one in the world, but is something I would like to do. I would be good at it, I think.”

“That – that’s great, really.” Roger seems to be struggling with the words but carries on valiantly, “You would be great, definitely.”

“Yes,” Rafa allows himself a smile. “I worked some with kids at my academy, no? Before. So…the courts – they are for me, to coach children.”

“Yes, sure,” Roger says. “I am happy for you.”

“Thank you, Roger.” Rafa looks into Roger’s eyes, smiles, and puts an arm around Roger’s shoulders for the briefest of moments before getting up. The sun has set. The western sky is still glowing with reds and pinks but the east has started to darken. Rafa suddenly remembers they did not have lunch. Alright, they can have an early dinner.

Rafa looks over his shoulder to see Roger following at a little distance. Well, it is nothing compared to the distance that has grown between them now, within the last few hours. Rafa does not know when Roger can bridge that gap, if ever. He has only another thing to tell Roger, and then he will be free in his conscience. He stops beneath the trees and turns around. Roger stops where he is, with a question in his eyes. Rafa stands very straight and looks into Roger’s face. The glow of dusk is in Roger’s hair while his face is in shadows, but Rafa can read the emotions there. He tries to imprint every line of thought on that face in his memory before he utters, slowly, clearly, “You know I would not ask you for what you cannot give me?”

“I know,” Roger answers. Rafa nods, turns around, and walks away, leaving Roger where he was. No more words needed.

*******

The next morning things are awkward. They have truncated conversations, saying only what is absolutely necessary and nothing more. They do not look at one another when they speak. Rafa takes Roger’s breakfast to his room, and goes to collect the dishes when Roger is in the shower. They have lunch in almost silence. As evening descends, Rafa cannot decide what to cook for dinner. He is staring at the vegetables on the kitchen counter when Roger enters. Rafa cannot look at him, at the sorrow in his eyes. Every word from their conversation of yesterday starts fighting inside his head and he has to sit down at the table with his head in his hands.

“Why don’t we go out for dinner?” Roger says kindly. “You don’t look well – you don’t have to cook all the time. Time for my treat, yeah?”

Rafa accepts gladly. They go to a small seafood restaurant close to the beach. Winter is not the best time of the year to be on the beach, yet there are a lot of diners at the place, none of them a local except Rafa. Roger pushes the menu towards Rafa, asking him to describe the items, and after about ten minutes they order. Rafa looks around. He can remember a few dinner ‘dates’ with Roger from the other life, if they could be called ‘dates’. More like a few precious hours from their busy schedules, when they could sneak away from their families and from the glare of the spotlights and the newspeople, when they could share a meal away from all troubles.

After their food arrive and they begin eating, Roger relaxes a little. They make small talk, and Roger looks happier. Rafa wishes yesterday never happened. He wishes their former lives never disappeared, and they were the stars they were, sharing a meal incognito in some small restaurant and giggling about their daring. That is not to be, though. This is all he has, and wish however much he might, he cannot change it. Well.

“You know where you are going next?” Rafa asks after they have finished dinner and are waiting for the bill. Roger’s departure is always heartbreaking, and this time more so, because Rafa does not know if he will be back in six months.

Roger hesitates, and dread rises in Rafa’s chest. _What if – what if he is left all alone?_

“Paris,” Roger says finally. “Well, Paris at first, I think. Then New York…and I’ll probably end with London.”

Rafa lowers his head and stares at his empty plate. So, Roger is doing _the tour_. What he is going to gain from it, Rafa cannot understand. But it is not for him to understand, either. He has found peace in his island, among his flowers and his courts, in his friendship with Miguel Ángel. Roger has had none of these. And to each his own way. Rafa looks up. “No Melbourne?”

“I – I’m not sure I want to travel that far,” Roger answers. “I have to make it within six months – I don’t think I can fit Melbourne within that time.”

“Oh.” Rafa lowers his head again. And when he returns, what? Would they be same again? Or would things change? _And does the promise of Tenerife still stand?_ He smiles and looks back up. “Still no Tenerife, then?”

Roger blushes. “Some other time, I guess.” They do not refer to the message, Roger’s question and Rafa’s yes, but Rafa can feel it in the air between them, can breathe it in.

They walk back home in silence, not a silence of rage and despair, but a silence of peace and closeness. It is the silence that exists between two persons who are intimate and do not need words to understand each other. A cool breeze blows from the sea, and Rafa takes a detour through the beach, Roger following a few steps behind. When they are close to the house, Rafa can feel Roger stop, and he turns around, raising an eyebrow in question.

Roger takes a deep breath and says, “I miss it too, you know? Every day. Every waking hour.”

Rafa notices the lines of pain on Roger’s face, and his insides clench. He knows Roger is baring his heart to Rafa, is begging Rafa to look into his soul and forgive him for the harsh words he said the day before. Rafa knows those words were directed as much towards Roger himself as they were to him. Roger looks so vulnerable that Rafa wishes to cry. He closes the distance between them and pulls Roger into a one-armed hug, the fingers of his other hand at the base of Roger’s abdomen, their foreheads touching. “I know,” he whispers into Roger’s ear. Roger lets out a warm breath against his cheek. Rafa curls his fingers around Roger’s waist and holds him tightly. Their hearts beat in unison. The silent sky is the only one who watches.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa starts his academy, talks with Miguel Ángel, and remembers a love of his vanished life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I am late again. Last week I was away for work. And I have struggled somewhat with this chapter. Still trying to get out of that depression, but I am doing better. Please read and comment.
> 
> P. S.: I do not name the tennis player Rafa had an on-off relationship with in his past life. I only mention him as 'he' in italics. You are free to imagine whoever you wish to.

“You seem depressed.” The Catalan words snap Rafa out of his reverie. He looks up to see Miguel Ángel’s face high above him, headphones on his ears. He is standing beside Rafa, who is lying on his back with his arms behind his head, the leaves of the cypresses swaying above him. Miguel Ángel has taken off his top and his socks and shoes. By the looks of it, he has cleaned up the court as well. For the last few days, Rafa has not been able to concentrate on anything except tennis. Today, after practice was over, he could not join Miguel Ángel in packing and cleaning, and just walked to the garden with the cypresses and lay down on the grass.

“Only tired, Ángel,” Rafa answers listlessly. “And I am sorry – I should have helped you.”

Miguel Ángel waves a hand. “No trouble at all,” he says, and sits down beside Rafa.

Rafa turns away and looks at the canopy of cypress leaves above him. Only the sounds of nature have been able to soothe him during the last few days. His mind is in a tumult since Roger left. Although Roger promised to return after six months, Rafa is not sure what he should expect from his next visit. He does not know whether to look forward to it with anticipation or with dread. True, that meeting is a long way off. And anyway, it may be the same as all of Roger’s previous visits. Rafa has tried to reason with himself. He has tried to keep himself busy with other things. He _has been_ busy with other things. The first Saturday after Roger left, he opened his academy. It was a very small event, with only Miguel Ángel, the court designer and the maintenance people assisting Rafa. A handful of neighbours arrived, with a handful of excited children. Most of the adults were just curious; some had been there to enjoy a day’s diversion. Finally, a single child had enrolled. It was nothing compared to the opening ceremony of Rafa’s academy in his other life, his vanished life. That had been a grand event, attended by journalists from around the world, various personalities, his own family, and Roger himself. Whereas this time, in this life, there was no international press or famous people, and Roger was in a different country, across the Alps…

“You are not listening to me, no?” Miguel Ángel remarks. He is now lying on his stomach beside Rafa, elbows resting on the grass, his curls brushing Rafa’s shoulder.

“Sorry Ángel. Just thinking,” Rafa says in a small voice.

“Worrying about tomorrow?” The young man asks.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow the academy starts functioning in earnest. That is why they were practising today despite it being a weekday. Miguel Ángel has been a great help. He has come to Rafa’s house every day this week and played with Rafa, or helped with court maintenance, although he must have been tired after his classes during the day. He has revealed recently that he is trying to get a doctoral scholarship to work with a professor whose work he has admired for a long time. Which means he has to write a research proposal also, and is reading a lot for that. How he can manage all these, Rafa cannot comprehend. He is just grateful to the young man for his help.

‘Si yo tuviera la llave de tus ojos cerrados/ Si yo pudiera inventar cada recuerdo, cada abrazo/ Si hoy encuentro respuestas, y descubro la cura -’

“Really?” Rafa asks as the song plays close to his ear.

“Yes. Then I would know why your mind is not here!” Miguel Ángel pouts. He has taken off the headphones and placed his phone beside Rafa’s head to disrupt his thoughts.

“I am sorry, Ángel,” Rafa apologises for the third time within minutes. “But do you really want to have a key to my eyes and know what is in my mind?”

“Yes. But I already know what I would see.” Miguel Ángel sighs tragically and drops his head on Rafa’s chest. “You don’t love me anymore.”

“Really Ángel!” Rafa exclaims. “You talk such shit sometimes!”

“But I make you laugh,” Miguel Ángel says mischievously, looking at Rafa with his big eyes, his chin on Rafa’s chest. He wraps an arm around Rafa’s shoulder.

“Ángel,” Rafa says calmly, “We are outside. What if someone comes and sees us like this?”

“Why, we are inside our own grounds, we can do anything!” Miguel Ángel laughs and puts a leg across Rafa’s thighs.

“Honestly Ángel, it is so difficult to reason with you sometimes!” Rafa extricates himself from the tangle of limbs.

“Then tell me what is bothering you,” Miguel Ángel asks, rolling away to lie on his back on the grass.

“Ángel -” Rafa stops. What can he tell the young man? _It is private?_ Miguel Ángel would only laugh at that. _It is not prudent to enquire into other people’s business?_ Too rude. So Rafa lies. “Just worried about tomorrow. Now let us go inside and have tea.”

“I want my tea here,” Miguel Ángel says. And Rafa has no choice but to bring the tea things, some cookies and liquid chocolate to the garden. They have tea sitting cross-legged on the grass.

“You love me really,” Miguel Ángel remarks, licking chocolate off his fingers.

Rafa smiles. “You are incorrigible.”

*******

Rafa did not know what to expect from the first day he would start teaching his first student. Nothing spectacular, definitely. So it goes normally, he supposes. The boy, about seven years old, arrives at four in the afternoon, his mother with him. She tells him that she works at the post office during daytime, and teaches music to children in the evening, so she must leave her son there and come back for him later in the evening. Rafa nods politely.

Rafa has always been good with children. In the other life he used to have great relation with the ball kids everywhere he went. In this life he had not come into much contact with children yet, but he soon finds out that this side of his character has not changed. Within half an hour he and Roberto are great friends. _So many things do not change!_

They begin with stretches and warmup. Then Rafa starts teaching Roberto how to hold a racket properly. “You do not grip so tightly, child!” exclaims Rafa as he corrects the child’s hold. “You are not holding a club or a hammer. You are holding a tennis racket.”

It takes a long time, but Rafa is patient. “We have all the time in the world,” he tells Roberto as the child concentrates on his grip. Rafa knows he does not have Toni’s aura. He knows he cannot frighten anyone into submission just with a look. He knows he cannot scold children. But that does not mean he would not persevere until his student achieves perfection in technique. His virtue is his patience. _Everyone has his own unique quality_.

Miguel Ángel arrives about an hour and a half later when Rafa is still caught up with correcting Roberto’s grip. He stands at the edge of the court with his hands on his hips, watching the process. Rafa had told the child to hold the racket not very tightly, so he has held it so lightly that it flows out of his hand when he tries to hit an imaginary ball. Miguel Ángel starts to laugh but quickly stifles his laughter as Rafa scowls at him. He sits down on a bench and remains silent until the boy’s mother arrives.

After they depart he opens his mouth. “You should teach him how to stand properly at the baseline.”

“I know,” Rafa sighs. “I have to start from the beginning.” He sits down beside his friend. “Why are you so late today? I was expecting you for a long time – today you have the second half off, right?”

“There was career counseling today,” Miguel Ángel replies. “I know what I want to do, but everyone has to attend it anyway. And like you, my surname starts with N,” he turns around to face Rafa, “so I had to wait for quite some time.”

“I see.” Rafa decides to overlook whatever hint there may be behind the comparison of surnames. “Should we go into the house and have tea?”

“Oh yes!” Miguel Ángel grins. “Of course I come here for your tea!”

_Where is this going?_ Rafa does not know, and does not wish to know. “It is only decorum, to offer tea to guests, I think.”

“Ah!” Miguel Ángel sighs dramatically. “I am your guest only, yes?”

Rafa suddenly feels helpless. “Don’t know what you mean, Ángel. You are my friend.”

“That is it!” Miguel Ángel exclaims triumphantly. “You don’t have to follow decorum with your friends. I like your tea, but I have come here only to see your face. So let me do that, instead of running away to the kitchen.”

Rafa sighs and gives in. They sit in silence for some time, Rafa looking into the distance, feeling Miguel Ángel’s eyes on his face. Sometimes he glances at Miguel Ángel and catches his eye, and they smile. There is a question in Rafa’s mind; it has been there for some time, and he already knows the answer, but the perverse part of his brain still wants to ask. _But how does one ask and be discreet at the same time?_ At last Rafa gathers the courage and says, “May I ask you something, Ángel?”

Miguel Ángel smiles. “Anything you wish.”

“Don’t you have friends – I mean – people your own age you like to hang out with?” It sounds rather rude in Rafa’s ears, so he adds quickly, “You know, I used to have a lot of friends since I was a child – and before all this happened, so I thought -”

“Oh,” Miguel Ángel utters, and remains silent for some time. Rafa is almost at the point of saying ‘Forget it’ when he starts speaking. “I _have_ some friends – at the university. But men my age are not serious about a lot of things. Women are serious, but not men. I don’t judge anyone, I just – it is only I like people like you.” He continues in a higher tone, “You are a lot older, but you do not treat me like a child. You consider me your equal, you respect me. There are not many people like you. So -” he shrugs.

“What does your mother say about this?” Rafa is curious.

Miguel Ángel laughs. “Oh, she is happy that I have a serious friend who knows what he is doing.”

Rafa laughs also. “You flatter me. _She_ flatters me.” The mood becomes lighter, and they talk about other things until it becomes quite dark and Miguel Ángel leaves.

Alone, the thoughts return to Rafa. He has known for a long time about Miguel Ángel’s attraction to him. But until this evening, those words had remained unspoken, and hence only in the realm of assumptions and conjecture. Once out of that realm, everything becomes reality. Yet Rafa cannot encourage the young man’s hopes, or give himself ideas. Roger is going to return in six months. Rafa’s own future with Roger is uncertain, but he does not wish to make Ángel’s future uncertain too. He should speak to both of them about the other, but how? _How is he supposed to do that without hurting both, and also himself in the process? Is he being selfish?_

**************

January moves into February. The rains become less frequent, the sun becomes brighter and hotter, and Rafa’s student has progressed quite a lot. He has started with forehand shots. But he bounces the ball so many times that it reminds Rafa of somebody he used to know. _So many things remind Rafa of somebody he used to know in the other life!_ And still he has not been able to resolve how to speak to Miguel Ángel about Roger, or vice-versa.

One evening Rafa speaks with Roberto’s mother, the postmistress. “I suppose you can bring me my letters when you come here? I don’t receive a lot of letters, may be only once a month, or not even that. So, if you could help -”

It is late in February when she arrives with an envelope when she comes to take her son home. “I had it with me all day – I completely forgot!” she exclaims. Rafa thanks her, and puts the envelope in the pocket of his shorts. He has already seen the familiar handwriting on the envelope.

After dinner he takes the envelope to bed. He is taking patience to the extreme, really. He could have opened the envelope a lot earlier. It is a postcard from Paris, with two lines –

_The waiters are incredibly rude and the food is overpriced._  
_I guess some things never change.  
Roger_

A smile creeps into Rafa’s face. No waiter was ever rude to Rafa, but perhaps it was because he was Rafael Nadal, a famous person. Or perhaps he never tried speaking in French with French waiters and instead used hand gestures. People are kinder to you if they think you are unfamiliar with their ways. Or maybe not, what with the anti-foreigner drive in Europe nowadays…Anyway, waiters were never rude to Rafa for some unknown reason.

Rafa falls asleep holding the postcard to his chest.

The next day is Saturday, and Rafa has scheduled coaching in the morning during weekends. As Roberto is packing away his things, Rafa decides to text Roger – a reply to his postcard.

_The waiters were not rude to me._

Within a minute his phone starts ringing. “This can’t be true,” Roger says as soon as Rafa takes the call. “Parisian waiters are rude to everyone.”

Rafa laughs. “Oh hello Roger.”

“Hello Raf,” Roger responds. “But really?”

“Really. Perhaps I am too nice.”

“No, no. They don’t care about that.”

“Who knows!” Rafa watches Roberto’s mother walking towards the court. “Wait a little.” He speaks to her about her son, and then returns to the call. Roger is still there. “Sorry for that. My neighbour, she came for her son,” he explains.

“Are you babysitting?”

Rafa laughs. “No. I am teaching. I told you, no?”

“Oh,” Roger’s voice changes. “How is it going?”

“Well, I think. Is only one kid, but still it is nice.” Rafa does not try to hide his happiness. “He cannot beat me yet.”

“That is good to know,” Roger replies. “How – how does it feel?”

“Good,” Rafa says the truth. “It feels good, Roger. It feels good to know I have not forgotten everything.”

“I am happy for you,” Roger’s tired voice reaches his ear. He can discern a yawn.

“What time is it for you?” Rafa knows Roger cannot be in Paris still, he must be in New York.

“No idea. Nearly dawn, I think.”

“Go to bed, Roger. Sleep. We talk another time, no?”

“Yeah sure. Goodnight, Rafa.”

“Goodnight.” Rafa does not tell him that it is morning for him; he does not want to trouble a tired man with trifles.

Miguel Ángel arrives in early afternoon. “I know I should have been here in the morning, but I was studying and lost track of time,” he says it in a rush even before he takes a seat in Rafa’s drawing room. “Did not sleep last night.”

Rafa had already assumed as much from the dark circles under his eyes. “It is not a rule that you have to come here everyday, Ángel!” He exclaims. “I don’t want to destroy your health. You will have lunch, and then you will go to bed.”

“But I -”

Rafa stops him in mid-sentence. “Do not speak against my orders,” he holds up a finger and says sternly. “I am old enough to be your father.”

Miguel Ángel laughs at that but listens to Rafa. After he has finished lunch Rafa takes him to his own bedroom. He cannot take anyone into Roger’s bedroom, ever. “Go to sleep. Get up only when you wake up naturally.” He leaves as Miguel Ángel starts taking off his shirt.

Two hours later Rafa goes upstairs to check on Miguel Ángel. Both parts of his brain are warning him not to, but he ignores them both. _He is not your child_ , they scream. _And even if he was, you cannot violate his privacy! Shut up, both of you_ , Rafa scolds them. There must be a third part of his brain, he decides, which makes him do such rash things.

The door and the windows are wide open. Miguel Ángel is not one for privacy, Rafa has known that for a long time. He is lying on his back, clad only in his underpants, looking peaceful in deep sleep. Rafa does not enter the room; he turns away from the door and marches downstairs. He does not want a repeat of that Roger episode. Especially because unlike Roger, who is not sure, Miguel Ángel wants Rafa in his bed. So Rafa concentrates on his book.

About two more hours later he hears movements upstairs. He prepares tea and walks upstairs with a tray. Miguel Ángel is not in the bedroom; he must be in the balcony. As Rafa enters the balcony the words and the music fall on his ears. ‘No puedo seguir buscando tu aroma en el viento, / No puedo mentir, ni ocultar lo que siento, / Intento vivir sufriendo bajo este silencio -’

“So, who is this singer you like so much?” He puts down the tray on the small table and asks Miguel Ángel.

“You don’t know him?” the young man exclaims, and Rafa can see the surprise in his big eyes even in the darkening evening.

“No,” Rafa answers. “Perhaps because I don’t listen to recent pop.”

“It is not _all_ pop,” Miguel Ángel says with a huff. “There are elements of flamenco in all of his songs. Some have ballad-like qualities. I will give you a record – you can see for yourself.”

“Does he sing only sad songs?” Rafa asks, taking a sip of tea. “I always hear you listening to sad songs by him.”

“Oh no,” Miguel Ángel laughs. “It is only that I love the sad ones more. Here, listen to this.” He pauses the song he was listening to and starts another. “It is French, but you know French, no?”

“Somewhat,” Rafa replies noncommittally. His French is not the best, but he has improved greatly during the past years. “It is La vie en rose,” Rafa says after listening for about a minute. “But he changes l’homme to la femme and all the il to elle.”

“Yes, he does. Everybody is not like you or me, unfortunately.” Miguel Ángel raises his eyebrows as if Rafa has made a childish remark. He finishes his tea, stops the song and gets up. “I am going home. No need to see me out.”

Rafa does not understand why he leaves in such hurry, or why he sounds sulky. It is some time later, when Rafa is preparing dinner, when it dawns on him what Miguel Ángel was trying to mean by ‘everybody is not like you or me’. _That!_ Rafa laughs lightly. Really, he sometimes forgets how well he and Ángel know each other. And it is not very difficult to know, not if someone is looking for it. Whatever Roger said, Rafa never hid actually. He just did not go about proclaiming it to the world, but he never lied to anyone if he was asked about it. And those who wanted to know always knew, like his lover from the other life knew before Rafa himself was completely certain.

Rafa was a few months shy of sixteen at that time. They met in USA, where Rafa was playing in a Challenger tournament. _He_ was a few years older than Rafa, and already in the professional tour. That time nothing happened, only they had some very pleasant chats. They spoke the same language and hence it was one problem less for Rafa, who found the language barrier quite daunting when he tried to speak to other players. In fact, Rafa had assumed that he talked so much with the older player because of no other reason than they had the same mother tongue.

Things changed when Rafa met _him_ next. He was in the juniors singles at Wimbledon, and _he_ was in the men’s singles, but _he_ sought Rafa out in the practice court area. Rafa had completed his practice and his shower and was sitting in the upper floor balcony of the locker rooms, having tea and watching some women players practising, when _he_ suddenly appeared and sat down in a chair opposite Rafa. _He_ was barefoot, and had a bag and a towel on _his_ shoulders. “Enjoying yourself?”

Rafa was startled. “No, not really. It is so humid here – I don’t like.”

_He_ only said “Oh” to that and continued staring at Rafa from under _his_ eyelids.

The silence was awkward, and the gaze slightly disconcerting. Rafa looked around for something to say and finally asked lamely, “So, you are in the main draw?”

A small smile played on the older man’s lips as _he_ said, “You are surprised?”

“Of course not!” Rafa’s face grew hot. He continued hurriedly, “I did not want – I only wanted to say I did not see you yesterday, and I thought – I did not think you remembered me.” He felt more foolish than ever.

“Ah.” _He_ leaned back in _his_ chair and smiled suggestively. “Who could forget you who has seen you once, eh?”

“I – I would not know about that,” Rafa replied. He did not know what the man was hinting at. He gulped some hot tea which scalded the tip of his tongue. His eyes were almost watering when he felt the other man’s toes brush against his foot. He gasped, and rubbed his eyes in order to hide his shock.

“Sorry,” the older player said mildly.

_Maybe it was a mistake_. Rafa tried to smile. “Burnt my tongue. Do you want tea? I can bring a cup for you.” He wanted to run away and hide for a few minutes.

“No,” the older player shook _his_ head. “Please don’t trouble yourself for me. I only wanted to say hello.”

“You have practice now? Or have you finished it?” Rafa wanted to change the subject.

“Finished,” _he_ replied. “I would have gone to the showers by now, but I saw you from there,” _he_ pointed towards the practice courts, “and thought to check if you remembered me.”

Rafa could not say something like _who could forget you_ , although he had not forgotten the older man. In fact, he had had some vivid dreams about _him_ , but really he could not talk about those embarrassing times. He said what he could talk about in polite society, “I watched a few of your matches, on television.”

“That is nice of you,” _he_ smiled. _He_ leaned forwards and picked up a strawberry from Rafa’s plate and put it in _his_ mouth, _his_ eyes never leaving Rafa’s face. Under the table _his_ foot touched Rafa’s foot again. _Definitely not a mistake_. This time Rafa did not flinch. He sat still and looked steadily into the older man’s eyes as _his_ foot travelled up Rafa’s shin and finally settled on his thigh. Rafa held his cup in his left hand and took a sip of tea while his right hand caressed the foot resting on his thigh. He wondered what Toni might say if he discovered Rafa like this. Something hard sprang up in Rafa’s heart. He was sixteen; he did not need Toni’s permission for everything.

They did not see each other again during that Wimbledon. The older man lost in an early round. By the time Rafa lost in the semifinal, _he_ had returned to _his_ country. But they would meet again later that year and things would come to a head.

Rafa was in _his_ country to play at a hard court event. He was sitting with his uncle on a locker room bench when _he_ came out of the shower stalls, saw Rafa, smiled and walked over towards them. “Good morning,” _he_ said to Toni, and then sat down beside Rafa. Toni’s face hardened a little, but he acknowledged the greeting with a small nod. Rafa turned towards the man and willed his heart to stop beating so loudly. “You are playing here?”

“Of course! My country’s tournament – I am bound to play, right?” _He_ laughed heartily and waved a hand. “When did you arrive?”

“Last night,” Rafa answered, and leaning towards _him_ , added in a lower voice, “I was thinking I would see you here.”

“Really? You were looking forward to meeting me?” _He_ made no attempt to lower _his_ voice. “If you called me yesterday, I would have seen you this morning.”

Rafa smiled. “You forget that I don’t have your number.”

“I did not know – of course! We can correct the mistake at once. Tell me your number, and I will give you a call,” _he_ said, taking _his_ phone out of the pockets of _his_ shorts.

Rafa glanced furtively at Toni. His face was impassive. _Fine!_ Toni cannot decide Rafa’s friends for him, Toni was not his mother. They exchanged phone numbers, and the older man got up. “See you around, Rafael. May be we could practise together sometime, no?”

“Excuse me,” Toni interrupted sharply. “I decide with whom my nephew practises, and when.”

_He_ gave Toni a curt nod. “Definitely. Forgive my indiscretion.” _He_ turned towards Rafa and waved. “See you soon.”

The moment _he_ vanished, Rafa turned towards Toni. “Uncle, there was no need to be rude!” He did not know where he got the courage to talk into Toni’s face.

“I – I did not like his attitude,” Toni sounded hesitant. “And I regret being rude to him – it was unnecessary, like you say.”

Rafa was amazed. Perhaps Toni was not used to people treating him like a normal human being, perhaps he wanted people to be afraid of him. But he must remember everybody was not his nephew. “He is just easygoing. But he is nice – we met after practice one day, at Wimbledon.” He did not say what happened during that meeting.

Toni nodded. “It is alright, Rafael. I want you to have friends. You easily make friends with people – it is a great quality, I like it. But remember what I told you, about this being an unkind world. I only want you to be safe, child.”

Rafa squeezed Toni’s hand. Toni always wanted the best for Rafa. Toni was kind, though it was not apparent to everyone. But he was a bit paranoid, too. _People had work, they did not care that much about other people’s sexuality, did they?_ Of course Rafa would know better as the years went by, but he was sixteen, and sixteen year-old boys did what their uncles expressly asked them not to, like consuming excessive amounts of chocolate or kissing men in rather public situations. For they _did_ kiss behind the lockers after Rafa had defeated _him_ in the fourth round. It was a quick kiss, but Rafa’s lips continued to burn hours later, when he tossed and turned in bed. He could feel in his bones that he was very close to an important point in his life.

After the final, as Rafa’s team congratulated him in the locker room, _he_ approached them. “Hello! Good evening!” Toni called out, keen to make up for his rudeness during their first meeting. Rafa hid a smile behind his hand.

“Congratulations Rafael!” _He_ patted Rafa’s arm. “I was here to watch your match. You were wonderful!” _He_ shook hands with other members of Rafa’s team before turning towards Toni. “Would you mind if I invite Rafael for dinner tonight?”

“Don’t see why I should mind if Rafael wishes to go,” answered Toni. “We leave tomorrow, in the afternoon, so we have plenty of time to pack up, I think. But it should be only dinner. No partying.” He added in a sterner tone.

“Oh,” _he_ laughed. “My house is close by, and I live with my parents. They would not allow us to go partying. I only want to chat.”

Toni shrugged. Rafa finished his bath and his press duties before returning to the locker room to find _him_ and Toni in an animated conversation. “Here he is!” exclaimed Toni when he spotted Rafa. “Go and enjoy your dinner, Rafael. But don’t be late.”

“I lied to your uncle – well, sort of,” _he_ said as they walked down the street. “When I am in the country I live with my parents – in our ancestral home. But here I have an apartment, where I live alone. Please don’t be angry with me because I lied!” _He_ looked at Rafa with remorseful eyes.

“Of course I am not angry!” exclaimed Rafa. “I would love to -” he had to stop. _What would he love to? Be alone with him? Could he say that without giving away that he desired him? But then, the older man had as good as admitted to desiring Rafa when he admitted his lie. No, it was too complicated_. Rafa gave it up entirely, and tried to change the course of the conversation. “Where are we going now?”

“To a restaurant, to have dinner. And after that, if you wish, to my rooms.” _He_ stopped and clutched Rafa’s hand. “Please, Rafael, I want to talk to you so badly!”

Rafa was thrilled with the possibility of spending even an hour alone with the man he had been dreaming about literally for months. And they could have a night – not the entire night though, Toni asked him not to be late… “I want to talk to you too,” Rafa smiled at _him_.

During dinner they talked about tennis, the weather, when Rafa might play in a grand slam, how they both liked rowing, and other such topics. _He_ paid in spite of Rafa’s protestations – “You are a guest in my country!” And finally, _finally_ , they were on the way to their destination. Rafa could feel that every step he took was immensely important. As they walked closer to the river, there were less shops and less artificial light, the stars grew brighter, the full moon more silver, and the air cooler and fresher.

The apartment was in the top floor of the building, overlooking the river. It was spring, so there was no mist, and Rafa could see the other bank from the drawing room window while he sat on the sofa. But the face of the man sitting in a chair opposite him was all that he wanted to see. That face was shining with a glow of desire.

“You don’t know how long I have waited for this moment,” _he_ uttered in a tremulous voice. “You don’t know how long I have waited to say this to you.” _He_ looked into Rafa’s eyes and said clearly, “I love you.”

Rafa could not believe his ears. He wanted to hear those words, during these months he had longed to hear those words, but now, when he had actually heard those words he could not believe his ears. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He continued to gaze into the older man’s eyes, who looked as if awaiting judgement. The brown eyes held the black ones for an eternity until Rafa found his voice. He had wanted to say it all along, really, but had realised it just that moment. “I love you too.”

The older man heaved a sigh of relief, got up from _his_ chair and extended an arm towards Rafa. Rafa took _his_ hand and stood up. The older man held Rafa’s face with both hands and kissed him. Light stubble grazed Rafa’s smooth jaw. He opened his mouth and _he_ pushed _his_ tongue inside, kissing hungrily and sucking the air out of Rafa’s lungs. They broke the kiss to breathe only to start kissing again, but slower and deeper this time.

They broke apart after ages, and the older man started pressing light kisses to Rafa’s neck while Rafa held _him tightly_ at the waist as if his life depended on it. Rafa’s hands pushed up _his_ shirt on their own, and he delighted in the feel of the smooth skin under his fingertips. The older man shivered and bit lightly on Rafa’s neck, light enough not to leave any mark, and later Rafa was grateful for that.

They removed their shirts and hugged and kissed again, and Rafa closed his eyes and revelled in the sensation of skin on bare skin. He broke the kiss and threaded his fingers through the dark hair on the older man’s chest. _He_ did not have much chest hair, but still it was a lot more than Rafa had. He had never felt skin in this way before, and he was blissed as he caressed _his_ chest and abdomen. _He_ just let Rafa do what he wanted.

Rafa removed his hand when he reached _his_ belt, and looked up. _His_ dark eyes were darker. Rafa himself was aroused like he had never been before. He was terrified, but loved the terror he felt.

“Ah,” the older man growled in a voice thick with desire. Rafa trembled like a leaf as he was led to bed.

He carried the pleasure and the pain back home with him. Thankfully, Toni did not question him about the dinner. He did not even know that his nephew had returned to the hotel as dawn was breaking.

The next year they had as much happiness as possible for two men separated by an ocean and constrained by their public lives. And Rafa’s life became rather too public too quickly after his team won the Junior Davies Cup at the end of that year and he played his first grand slam match at Wimbledon within a few months after that. It was during Wimbledon that Rafa introduced _him_ to his family as a friend – “He speaks the same language so it is easy.” Toni looked at Rafa sideways but said nothing. Rafa knew that Toni had understood, somehow; Toni could always read him like an open book. Within a few weeks his parents could understand too, but they loved their child any way he was; so Rafa was happy in his love.

Things would not remain the same forever. Eventually they would have their differences; they would be enamoured with other people; they would split up and reunite. But they never stopped loving each other until the day life as Rafa knew it vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) In this chapter we hear Miguel Ángel and Rafa conversing in Catalan. Way back in an early chapter I mentioned Miguel Ángel is originally from the outskirts of Barcelona. Now I say he is an ethnic Catalan. And Rafa of this story speaks Catalan, like the Rafa of reality. When I write I hear them speaking in both languages in my head.
> 
> 2) The song Miguel Ángel plays close to Rafa's ear at the beginning of the chapter is 'La llave' by Pablo Alborán. The song that Ángel listens to in Rafa's balcony is also by Pablo Alborán, called 'Desencuentro'. Both are beautiful songs, please listen.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa and Miguel Ángel plan a holiday, and Rafa receives postcards from Roger. This chapter is a sort of interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I have not abandoned the story, really. I have the draft prepared, and we are coming to a close. I apologise for my absence of two months, but there are valid reasons, and I hope everyone would forgive me. Firstly, i had a lot of exams and deadlines. There are still a few more, but they are some weeks away. Then, five kittens we were fostering were killed by street dogs, and it was a tragedy. And after that, there was a strike and I joined the picketing and got into trouble with the authorities. After I returned home, there was the autumn festival when no one does anything, of course. And I had a date (after ages) :)
> 
> Anyway, here I am. This is an in-between chapter, and something important is going to happen in the next two chapters. Roger does not appear in this one, because, as you know, he is touring the slams. Now enjoy!

It has been a few months since the start of the academy. Rafa’s days are very full. In the morning he has his own exercises, and then a quick, early lunch. Then he has to take care of the courts. The children arrive in late afternoon. Beginning with one child, his academy has eight students now. Rafa’s afternoons and evenings are spent with them. When he finally sits down to dinner, his body is pleasantly tired. He has fallen into a routine like one he had in his other life, though this routine is a lot less intense than that.

Miguel Ángel comes three or four days a week. He spends most of the time of his weekends with Rafa. On the weekdays that he comes, he drops by in the evening. On days his classes end early, he arrives in the afternoon to help Rafa with the coaching session or the maintenance of the courts. He has become a fixture at the academy, and the parents of Rafa’s students trust him well. Rafa does not want him to work so hard for him; his studies are hard enough, this being his final semester at the university. But Miguel Ángel has a ready answer. ‘You are a lot older, and you never take a day off’. So it rather comes as a surprise when one evening, after the kids have left and they are having tea in the upper floor balcony, he suggests that Rafa deserves a vacation.

“You are overworked. You should have a holiday.”

“No, I should not,” Rafa snaps. “ _You_ should take a holiday and concentrate your studies and exams instead of spending all your free time here.”

Miguel Ángel looks hurt. “If you don’t want me here anymore you could say -” his voice breaks and he cannot continue. He lowers his head. Rafa feels terribly guilty. He does not know what made him so angry at that harmless suggestion. He apologises at once, “I am so sorry, Ángel! Don’t know why I am so snappy.”

“I know!” Miguel Ángel raises his head and exclaims. “Because you are overworked! Your body cannot take the stress anymore. Give yourself some rest, or you will have a breakdown.”

“I suppose you are correct,” Rafa mutters, and thinks. He has been coaching constantly during the last few months. Learning to play tennis involves a lot of things, of course. Warm up, stretches, strength training, court coverage, footwork, not to mention different shots…Tennis is not just hitting a ball with a racket and hoping that the net does not interfere. He wants at least one of his students to shine, at least wants one of them to make a living out of tennis. He knows it is wise never to expect too much, or one should be ready to be heavily disappointed, but in some quiet corner of his heart he hopes one of them would be wonderful. Too early and too much hope perhaps, such hopes are never good…

“Hey, where is your mind wandering!” Miguel Ángel’s voice interrupts Rafa’s thoughts.

“It is nothing, nothing,” Rafa tries to hide his embarrassment.

“I can see you are ill. My exams will be over within two weeks, then let us go away somewhere and have fun. How about Ibiza? Or Tenerife?”

“No,” Rafa says sharply. Not Tenerife. He cannot go to Tenerife with Miguel Ángel, or with anyone except Roger. Tenerife is for Roger, when he finally acknowledges his love - if he finally acknowledges his love. Tenerife is for their union after all these years of separation. Tenerife is for love after all fights are over. And if Roger never acknowledges his love, he would never visit Tenerife again. But he cannot go there with anyone else. “You cannot go to Ibiza or Tenerife and return within the same day,” Rafa says hurriedly. “You have to stay the night there at least. We need to go somewhere where we can stay for just the day.” And now that he has said it, there is indeed a lot of trouble with staying somewhere else at night, including the question of renting separate rooms and what Miguel Ángel might think…

“You are so boring!” Miguel Ángel pouts.

“No, I am practical,” Rafa returns.

“I am not,” Miguel Ángel says at once. “I say let us run away somewhere! Disappear!”

“Of course we cannot disappear like that!” Rafa laughs. “Run away! What a thing to say! Your mother will be worried.”

“I will inform her,” Miguel Ángel replies.

“And I would need to inform my students where I am going and when I would return and such things,” Rafa continues. “It would not be a disappearance, then.”

“I see. We cannot be two gypsies, roaming the world,” Ángel sighs. “What do you suggest, then?”

“I would rather we go to Las Palmas, take the ferry and -”

“Not the ferry!” Miguel Ángel whines. “We take a boat and drive it ourselves to Las Palmas, spend the day there and return by the same boat in the evening. It will be fun.”

Rafa assents. “Well, we will do things your way. But I will pay – consider it my gift to you, for everything.”

“Hey, no!” Ángel tries to protest. “I have some money. No, it is not my mother’s,” he says with some force, for Rafa had opened his mouth. “I earned it with some teaching assistance duties at the school of linguistics – taking Catalan and Spanish classes for foreign students. I will pay some.”

“It is a gift, I said,” Rafa objects. “You will need money for doctorate applications and stuff. You are my friend.” Rafa puts some emphasis on the last word.

Miguel Ángel shrugs. “Alright. Las Palmas, then?”

“Yes. But only for one day. I don’t want you to be lazy about your research proposal and things related to the applications. And I don’t want to miss training for more than one day. This academy is important to me, sort of – sort of -” Rafa cannot find the right word in any of the languages he knows. “Well, I want at least one of the children to be as good as -” he stops. _As good as I used to be, and better still_ , he was going to say. _But when was that? Did it even happen? As good as I used to be – what was that in this world which he inhabits with Miguel Ángel? Who knows it in this world, apart from the man currently in a foreign land across the Atlantic?_ Miguel Ángel believes it, but that is because he is Miguel Ángel, because he loves –

“Rafael?” Miguel Ángel’s concerned voice comes from above Rafa’s head. He has left his seat and is now standing in front of Rafa. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” Rafa’s lips tremble. _Oh no, he is going to cry!_ He has not lost control like this for a long time. “I don’t know. It is silly, really.”

“Hey!” Miguel Ángel kneels at Rafa’s feet and takes his hands in his own. “Tell me.”

“It is just that I don’t know anything anymore,” Rafa sobs. _It is pathetic, he should not, this is unreasonable, but_ – “Everything is a mess. I don’t want to remember, but the universe is conspiring against me - reminding me of things best forgotten forever!”

“Oh,” Miguel Ángel sighs and holds Rafa’s hands to his chest. “Our mind tricks us into believing that we have forgotten, we have moved on; and at the most unexpected moment it will throw back all those memories in your face and you cannot deny them. Our minds are wicked, Rafael. The best way to fight back is not to try to forget.”

“What!” Rafa is incredulous. “You mean it is better not to move on?” _Is he saying Roger is right?_

“No!” Miguel Ángel reaches up so that they are looking into each other’s eyes. “Move on, by all means! But do not strive to forget. Memories are weapons, Rafael. Arm yourself with them.”

Rafa is amazed. This is a new thought, really. Roger, with his memories and his mourning, is not right. Rafa, trying to forget his vanished past, is not right. They need a compromise, a middle ground.

He looks into Miguel Ángel’s eyes. Blue is the only colour he can see now, everything else is in shadows. Miguel Ángel puts his fingers in Rafa’s hair and pulls his face downwards. Rafa lets him. Their foreheads touch. It is a familiar feeling, a feeling of security, warming his insides. Miguel Ángel turns his face a bit more upwards, and their lips touch. _It is okay_ , Rafa’s brain tricks him. _Ángel knows what he is doing_. He closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and lets the taste and the smell of the young man engulf him. But only for a few moments before he realises what he is doing and pulls away in horror. Miguel Ángel’s eyes are still wide with arousal, but realisation has started to dawn on him as well. He covers his mouth in embarrassment; then runs away without a word.

Rafa swears loudly. Why did he let his guard down? Was he not aware of Miguel Ángel’s feelings? _How many men do you need, Rafael?_ Asks one part of his brain. Which one, Rafa is not certain anymore. They all sound the same to him nowadays. They are all collaborating against him. _I don’t have any_ , he answers firmly. _Pretty mad I look, talking to my own head!_ There is only one thing to do now. Tell Miguel Ángel about Roger as soon as possible and accept the consequences.

A message arrives on Rafa’s phone as he is sitting down to dinner. It is from Miguel Ángel, and it contains a single word – _Perdóname_.

Why does _he_ ask for forgiveness? Rafa should be asking for _his_ forgiveness. But the message changes Rafa’s decision. He cannot tell him about Roger now, because that will involve talking about love, and he does not wish to embarrass his young friend. He will never allude to the kiss, and act as if it never happened. He would have to be more careful in future, but that he can manage. Sometimes forgetting is the only possible way.

************

Miguel Ángel does not take Rafa’s call. He sends a message saying he is busy with end-of-semester examinations. Rafa decides to give him a few days. He wishes him luck, and asks him, via a message, to come when he is free, and then concentrates harder on his own work. An inter-school tournament starts in two months, and Rafa has to prepare his students to participate in it.

He receives a fat envelope during training one evening. He knows those are postcards from Roger, and his mind wanders, but he steels himself and continues through the next one hour. Only after he has put the soup on boil he opens the envelope, and five postcards fall on the dining table. _Five!_ That is the highest number of postcards Roger has sent him from one place. These are from New York. There are two scenes of the city – one during the daytime, and the other showing the lights of the night. Two others are street scenes; they are beautiful, but Rafa is enchanted by the fifth one, which shows a silhouette of the skyline of the city at dusk. Behind this postcard Roger has written – ‘Time to return’. _Time to return where? To his home? To his family? To Rafa? Or is it time to return something? In English one uses the same verb – return – for both the purposes._ Rafa shakes his head. _It is confusing._

Rafa wonders what Roger can achieve from this tour of the slams. A sense of closure? Could Roger even enter the grounds? Rafa doubts it. As far as he knows, one is not allowed inside the galleries or the courts of any venue when no tournament or any other event is going on there. Of course there are ways to get access to the grounds, but he knows Roger would not resort to them. In his other life, one of his friends had told him that it is not impossible to enter the grounds if you were someone important or if you knew someone important and could bring references, but none of those things are possible for Roger…How could one reach a closure without touching the actual thing? How could he mourn without shedding tears of bitter sorrow on the same blades of grass where once he had shed tears of victory? How could he let go without touching his forehead to the same hard ground where once his feet had danced? How could he forget the feel of the scorched earth without remembering the taste and smell of fine dust in his mouth? Rafa’s eyes fill with tears as he looks around the kitchen. The smell of cut vegetables, the bubbling of soup, the simmer of boiling water, little flecks of spices scattered on the kitchen table, the knives and peeler on the wooden chopping board - his refuge. This house, the garden, the courts, tennis, exercise, coaching, the beach, the sea, swimming, cooking, Miguel Ángel – all form a reflection of his vanished life. An incredibly poor reflection it is – but a reflection nonetheless. Whereas Roger had nothing of his earlier life – he had abandoned his family also, the family that grounded him. Life was more unkind to Roger. _Let Roger find peace_. Rafa is agnostic, he does not know who to pray, but he says this in his mind over and over, like a mantra, as he walks up the stairs with the postcards in hand.

Sitting on his bed, Rafa dials the number. Although it is a summer evening, he should be home because of his exams. Within seconds a cautious voice answers, “Hello?”

“Hi Ángel! It seems you have forgotten the way to my house.” Rafa decides this to be the easier approach.

“Good evening Rafael. You know – exams…” the voice trails off.

“I know. But you never thanked me for wishing you luck.”

“I – sorry – I was busy with studies.” Miguel Ángel’s voice falls to a whisper, “And I was terrified.”

“Of me?” Rafa laughs. “No one fears me. Anyway, I was thinking about the boat journey we were supposed to make, after your exams. We have to discuss about it, fix date and time, no?”

“We are going?” Miguel Ángel sounds surprised.

“Why not?”

“Um – well, see, I have an exam tomorrow – it is the last one – can I see you tomorrow? Evening?”

“Definitely! At your service, sir!” Rafa laughs again, and this time Miguel Ángel joins him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa and Miguel Ángel have their holiday in Las Palmas, and Rafa reminisces some more. There is also some mention of sex, but nothing graphic, and only in flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for vanishing for three months. It has been a long nightmare of exams and deadlines and other things, but now I am home, and today I am going to post 2 chapters to make up to you all :)
> 
> Please read and comment. Thank you!

Miguel Ángel is humming a flamenco tune, but Rafa cannot discern the words – the strong wind is blowing them away. Keeping his hands on the steering, Rafa turns his head slightly to look at his companion. He is leaning against the railing, with his back to Rafa, looking at the dazzling surface of the sea. He has taken off his shirt already, and is dressed in only a white towel around his hips, sandals on his feet and a large hat on his head. His undress is in sharp contrast to Rafa, who has covered himself from head to toe as protection against the merciless sun. Although it is quite early in the morning, the weather is proclaiming loudly that the season is summer, with hot dry winds even this far out in the sea, and without a speck of cloud anywhere in the glittering blue sky. Rafa is wearing sunglasses also; he has to protect his vision in order to be able to steer the boat to the port at Las Palmas.

“Woah, Rafael, I cannot see anything!” Miguel Ángel’s voice is close to Rafa’s ear, before he is embraced from behind.

Rafa is startled. _Why does Ángel have to blunder into him now!_ Since that day they kissed, the closest they have been physically was sitting across from each other at the kitchen table this morning, having breakfast. And now he has his arms around Rafa’s waist, his face pressed into Rafa’s shirt. “Do you want us to crash or drown?” Rafa hisses through gritted teeth.

“I cannot see – everything is green!” Miguel Ángel wails, stumbling two steps backwards.

“You should have listened to me and used sunglasses, no?” Rafa keeps his gaze fixed to the waves in front of him.

“How cruel you are!” Miguel Ángel whines. “And so unromantic! Unlike you, I wanted to see the real colours of the water. Close to the beach the sea was brown – no, more grey, and as we are moving away from land the water is assuming different shades of blue. How are you supposed to enjoy all that with sunglasses on, tell me?”

Rafa shrugs. “Someone has to be responsible enough to take this boat to port.”

“Um,” Miguel Ángel tilts his head to one side. “Is it not possible to turn off the engine for some time, let the boat go with the current, and rest a little?”

“It is possible,” Rafa replies. “But not here. The current is particularly strong at this place, there are some whirlpools around here…A little further down the sea becomes calmer, then we could go with the flow as they say.”

“You know this place so well, Rafael!” exclaims Miguel Ángel.

Rafa grins. “I have been rowing boats in this water since before you were born, Ángel.”

“Oh, yes, you are ancient!” Miguel Ángel laughs. “So I suppose you would tell me not to jump into the sea for a swim here?”

“Better not. The currents around the whirlpools are quite strong. And Ángel,” Rafa adds, “It would be better if you don’t go into the sea wearing only that towel.”

“What are you thinking, Rafael!” Miguel Ángel pretends to be offended. “I am wearing my swimming shorts underneath. I am a decent man, you know.”

Rafa arches an eyebrow. “I am surprised. Knowing you -” he does not finish as Miguel Ángel cackles in delight and drops the towel.

Rafa looks away. Well, Ángel had at least spoken the truth. He says drily, “Just wait for a quarter of an hour and then you can have your wish to jump from the boat.”

The boat rocks a little for some moments after Miguel Ángel jumps into the waves at Rafa’s signal and turns to raise his thumb at Rafa, who waves back. Watching him floating serenely on the waves, Rafa is reminded of his own experiences of swimming in the sea. However much he scolds Miguel Ángel now, once upon a time he himself had no reservations about swimming naked. And he had had his fair share of embarrassment. Why, an incident occurred at this very place, perhaps at this very spot or quite close, in his other life!

He was going on a vacation with his first love, to spend a few days away from his own head. It was a dark time of his life – he had had a knee surgery in the middle of the year, and there was a question mark over his future. Returning to court that year was out of the question, and endless check-ups, rest, physiotherapy and confinement were starting to depress even him, for whom injuries and long periods of recovery had become normalised, so his doctors and his uncle consented when he wanted to get away from all that in winter. His lover had come over – _he_ had become a part of the family at that time, and _he_ promised to take good care of Rafa during their short holiday, to keep an eye on him and all that. Rafa was not an invalid of course, he had been walking and swimming and doing some training already.

The sea and the sun did him good. At times the sky would be overcast and there would be light drizzles, but on the whole the weather was not cold, and the water was quite warm during midday. Rafa was sprawled on a towel on the deck, soaking up the sun. It had been a long time since he had been outside like that. The cabin fever that had developed in him after months of confinement was almost gone, and he was feeling quite adventurous. He was impatient to touch the sea. Till then, he had not swam so far out in the sea, not since his surgery, but he was sure his body was a lot stronger than a few months back. It was easy to convince his lover; _he_ did not know of the currents as well as Rafa did – it was Rafa who had grown up close to that sea, after all. _He did_ try to tell Rafa to wear his swimming shorts, but Rafa did not care; the towel was enough, he assumed. He was wrong. He had jumped from the boat directly into the current, and within moments his towel swirled away from him. He still did not care. It did not matter - people had already seen him naked so many times.

But the moment he climbed back onto the boat his lover tried to cover him with _his_ body and quickly wrapped a bathrobe around him. “What do you think you are doing?” _He_ hissed. “What if people took your pictures?”

“What people? What pictures?” Rafa was confused.

“People! There are so many boats around!” _He_ waved _his_ arms. “Everybody knows you are not well, you had a surgery. What do you think the paparazzi would say? Rafa Nadal cannot play matches but can go partying!”

“Calm down, love.” Rafa had a desire to laugh, and it was hard to control it. “What is the need to care so much about what the media says about me? They say I take performance-enhancing drugs. It does not matter. What the fans think is what really matters. I don’t believe they mind this. Now let us enjoy.” And he kissed his lover under the midday sun.

Nothing bad happened that time, just as Rafa had expected. Somebody did take pictures, but posted it with a caption like Rafa was looking healthier and they hoped he would return to the tour soon. All other messages were also positive. They were in their hotel room when they saw those things on the internet. “This is because it is you,” his lover joked. “Your fans love to see you naked.” It was morning, and _he_ was lying on the bed.

Rafa had just showered, and was standing in front of the mirror, getting dressed. He turned his head and said, “Fuck you!” in English

“Yes, please!” _He_ laughed, and parted _his_ legs invitingly.

Rafa sighed. “You are incorrigible.” But he abandoned his attempts to get dressed and returned to bed. His shower was useless.

“Oye! Are you going to leave me here?” Miguel Ángel’s shout returns Rafa to the present. Unknowingly, he has quickened the speed of the boat while reminiscing. He slows down. “Sorry!” He shouts. “I am waiting. No hurry!”

“Really, Rafael!” Exclaims Miguel Ángel as he climbs onto the deck. “Where was your mind?”

“Nowhere,” answers Rafa. “And we are not very far from our destination,” he changes the subject.

“Yes, you made me swim a lot,” Miguel Ángel grumbles.

Rafa arches an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to swim?”

“Fuck you!” Miguel Ángel pokes out his tongue. Rafa does not say ‘Yes, please’.

***********

After lunch they find an empty shed near the beach, erected for tourists to rest after running about in the sand all day. Miguel Ángel spreads a towel on the floor, takes off his shirt and lies down. “My legs hurt, and I would love a siesta. You can walk along the beach, go for a swim, if you wish,” he tells Rafa.

“Of course not.” Rafa sits beside him and takes out his book from the bag they have carried. “I will stay here and read while you sleep.” He opens the bookmarked page.

“Oh please, never mind me! Who will do what if I am alone here for a little while?” Miguel Ángel asks.

“Nobody will do nothing,” Rafa replies. “But someone has to be responsible in life. Of course if you don’t want me here -” he closes the book.

“Rafael, no!” Miguel Ángel clutches Rafa’s wrist. “I don’t want you to go! I want you – to stay here, with me. Please.” His eyes are pleading.

“Well, then.” Rafa shrugs and lies down on his stomach beside Miguel Ángel. “You sleep. I will remain here.”

Miguel Ángel gives him a soft smile before turning his face away and closing his eyes. Rafa opens the marked page again and starts reading, but before long his mind wanders. His eyes are drawn to Miguel Ángel’s tanned skin and slim arms. The fingers of his hands itch to remove the dark curls obscuring the sleeper’s face. In order not to commit any indiscretion Rafa clutches his book tightly and forces himself to read a few sentences. He cannot take in a word, and before long abandons the attempt altogether and starts gazing at the sleeping figure beside him.

At times like this Rafa wonders what it would have been like if Roger were not known to him in this life. Not that he wants it, but he wonders. What if only Rafa had lost his former life, and not a single friend or acquaintance from his tennis life could recognise him in his present reality? Would he have been in love with the man sleeping peacefully beside him, and not with the one probably in London at present? Would life with Miguel Ángel have been easier? Would life be easier with anyone without years of history in red, blue and green? This is not the first time Rafa has had such thoughts. And he is not entirely sure, for once upon a time he _did_ think of having a life with someone whose life was not all tennis.

Rafa wonders at how well he remembers the night he met that man. He was in Rome as the defending champion there for the first time. It was the evening of the players’ party, and he found himself in a huge ballroom with high arches and intricately designed columns, trying to exchange pleasantries with the players and their families and other celebrities in as much English as was possible for him. His PR agent had abandoned him with “You are twenty – you should know how to talk to people on your own.” Rafa did not correct him that he was still some days shy of twenty.

“Hi Rafa! Want a drink?” Roger suddenly appeared beside him and asked.

“Hello Roger!” Rafa said, a little too enthusiastically. He felt easy around Roger, because Roger was very amicable, and he knew Rafa spoke bad English but he could gather from the hand gestures what Rafa wanted to say. “I don’t drink.”

“I know.” Roger smiled. “But try one champagne – it’s nice, trust me.”

“I trust you,” Rafa managed to say in English, and Roger disappeared in the crowd.

Rafa thought about the first time they had met. Well, not the first time. It was the second time, actually, but the first time they were playing singles. It was in Miami two years ago, on a sunny day, and Rafa had stunned Roger. But once the match was over Rafa was overcome with shyness and could not say much when Roger shook hands with him at the net, and it appeared that Roger did not want to be too friendly either. It changed the next year, when Rafa lost to him in the same tournament; this time at the final. Then throughout that year they saw each other a lot, as Rafa won clay court tournaments and the French Open and steadily climbed up the rankings. Roger tried to break through his shyness, and although he laughed when Rafa when spoke in broken, heavily accented English mixed with Spanish, he was very kind. And Rafa had begun to feel a sort of attraction – nothing very physical, but more like a sort of safety when Roger was close to him or talked to him. Rafa did not know what it all meant. He and Roger were supposed to be rivals; it was ridiculous that one could feel safe and comfortable in the company of one’s rival. But in Roger’s embrace, in the words from his lips, in his smiles, and even in the smell of his sweat Rafa felt something intimate, something like the refuge of a child. It was curious, really. He wished someone could explain these things to him, but was not certain with whom he could talk about these.

“Here you are.” Roger handed Rafa a delicate-looking glass filled with the white liquid. It appeared strange and out of place in Rafa’s hand, although he cooked a lot at home and was used to handling utensils. _Probably because the glass was too fashionable_. On the other hand, it seemed as if Roger was born to hold such glasses. _Probably he was_. Rafa willed his brain to stop thinking in such weird manner all the time. “Thank you, Roger,” he said quickly, and took a small sip. “Is nice,” he said, mainly not to hurt Roger’s feelings, because he did not find the taste particularly wonderful. _Probably because he was too stupid_. Anyway, Roger smiled.

“Hello, Roger, Rafa!” The tournament director came up and addressed them. “Everything alright? You are not facing any problems with the arrangements, I hope?”

“Everything is beautiful!” Rafa gushed in Spanish, before Roger could say anything. Roger laughed. The gentleman inclined his head towards Rafa with a smile. He was middle-aged, tanned, and jovial. He spoke in accented English, but who was Rafa to say that, anyway. “Let me congratulate both of you for winning a lot of things. And especially you, Rafa, for having such a wonderful season after that injury. I am glad you have recovered so well – I wish you all the best for your health.”

 _Recovery…health…If only he knew there was no recovery, no cure!_ Rafa would not be healthy forever; he was not destined to be healthy forever if he continued to play tennis. That bone in his foot would remain forever, the time bomb that could explode one day and end his career at a moment’s notice. And slowly, as the years would pass by, his game would consume his legs and hips, the doctors had warned. Rafa had chosen tennis over his life. _Tennis was his life_. He did not know when he might be able to speak about all that, if ever. So he only smiled and thanked the tournament director for his wishes.

The director talked a bit more; Rafa could not follow all that English, and Roger carried on the conversation. Then the gentleman turned towards Rafa. “There is someone who wishes to meet you, Rafa. A fan.”

“My fan?” Rafa was somewhat surprised.

Roger started to laugh at his astonishment while the director replied, “Yes, your fan. Don’t you think you have fans? You won a grand slam, you are one of the best claycourters in the world, you look nice, why won’t you have fans? Wait here, please.” He disappeared into a knot of people.

Rafa blushed furiously and turned to Roger for help. “Please stay here!” he pleaded. “I cannot talk to people, not even to fans, not in such parties!”

Roger laughed loudly at his discomfiture. “Why, you talk to me so nicely! And I don’t think you would have any problem talking to _him_.” His eyes were fixed on somebody behind Rafa.

“Who?” Rafa turned around and was rooted to the spot. The most beautiful man in the world was standing before him, with the tournament director by his side. He was about the same age as Rafa, slender and fair, with high cheekbones and a perfect jawline, black eyes, and straight black hair which fell to his shoulders. In fact, unlike Rafa, his long hair did not look like a mess. He politely shook hands with both Rafa and Roger while the tournament director introduced him as Emiliano, the child of one of the officials.

“I am happy to meet you finally! I have been watching your matches since I was little more than a child,” Emiliano said to Rafa. His English had a wonderful accent.

Before Rafa could control his thoughts and frame a reply, Roger interjected, “Rafa too was little more than a child when you started watching his matches, I presume!” Rafa turned red. “I am sorry I have to leave you, Rafa. Someone is trying to get my attention…I don’t think I would have another opportunity to wish you goodnight, so good night! To you too.” Roger waved to Rafa, nodded to Emiliano, and went away with a middle-aged woman.

Rafa did not know how to start a conversation. He fidgeted, and tried to observe Emiliano discreetly. In white shirt and black trousers, he had every appearance of being a descendant of some aristocratic family, may be one with lands and a manor house in old times, with sons serving as knights of the realm – Rafa tried to stop his imagination. Emiliano took a glass of something – Rafa did not know what – from a passing waiter and said to Rafa, “You go to a lot of these parties, I think?”

“Yes, I have to,” Rafa answered. “But they bore me. Everything always the same – people lie, give fake smile - I don’t mean you -” he stopped. He wanted to say that he did not think Emiliano was lying or was being boring, but did not know how to express it in English.

“Hmm,” Emiliano uttered thoughtfully and took a sip of his drink. They were standing close to a column, a little away from the crowd in the centre of the room or around the large tables. “This used to be a castle, you know,” he said suddenly.

Rafa had assumed as much. He was no stranger to ancient monuments, his own country being full of Grecian ruins and Roman edifices and Moorish castles and watchtowers and mosques (many of which were later converted to cathedrals), and entire medieval habitations. But he let Emiliano continue to speak; he loved the sound of his voice. “The design on the column behind you – it is done with inlaid stones. Put your hand on it and see.”

Rafa hesitated. Emiliano took his hand and put his fingers on the stone inlay and guided his fingertips over the surface of the column. Rafa felt goosebumps rise on his neck, and tried to control himself so that his hand did not tremble. Emiliano released his hand, and he immediately missed the warmth and the feel of those fingers. “Are you staying here?” Emiliano asked.

“No,” replied Rafa, his insides all chaos. “We always stay outside the old city – I mean, last year also we stayed there – easier to reach the courts.”

“A pity,” Emiliano said more to himself than to Rafa, and sighed and bit his lip. Rafa took another sip of the champagne, he had forgotten he had a glass in hand. He hated the taste, and put down the glass on a nearby table. Music started to play somewhere. It was a nice tune, but Rafa did not wish to listen to any music that night. He wailed, “Oh no! I will get a headache, sure!”

“Let us go outside, then,” Emiliano said, and holding Rafa firmly by the hand, steered him through the crowd till they were in an open balcony. The marble columns were there too, but luckily there were few people and no noise. Rafa felt great relief as the night air touched his face and blew his hair. Emiliano leaned against a column and looked into Rafa’s face. There was a strange smile on his lips. “How do you tolerate the noise spectators make when you are playing?”

Rafa did not understand all the English words. He could not go on guessing words and meanings all the while he was with this man. So he asked, “Emiliano, can I request something?”

“Anything,” he replied with a wave of his white hand.

“Do you understand Spanish? I mean,” Rafa added, “I have problems with English. So much English all evening – hurts me.”

Emiliano tilted his head on one side, and smiled again. He looked even more beautiful when he smiled. “English hurts you physically?” He asked in Italian.

Rafa understood it perfectly. “Yes, too much English hurts me physically,” he answered in Spanish. “And I can understand Italian - if one speaks slowly, though I cannot speak it. So, if you could understand Spanish -”

“I can,” Emiliano said. “I study comparative literature – I have to read Spanish literature too, I can read and understand Spanish quite well, yes. So it is not a problem if we converse in our mother tongues.”

“Thank you.” Rafa was truly grateful. “You were asking if I am not disturbed by noises in court. I am. But while a point is going on the viewers cannot shout or move about, so it is not a problem. And if anyone does anything, I am too engrossed in my game to notice it. While I am playing the world does not exist to me. I know it sounds crazy -”

“It does not,” Emiliano assured him. “It is the same when I am reading a book. The thing is, we are passionate about what we do.” His eyes blazed.

Rafa leaned on the railing and looked down at the street. It was one of the larger streets of the older part of Rome. Last year he had walked through the old city with his sister after the final, and it appeared to him that most of the side streets and lanes were quite narrow, with large imposing buildings on either side. “I love Rome,” Rafa said. “I love the old city, but -” he stopped. He did not know how Emiliano would react to any criticism of his beloved city.

“But?” Emiliano asked from where he stood.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Rafa turned towards him and pleaded. “I love this hotel – castle – whatever you wish, and I love these buildings, but I was born in an island, and – no, forget it.”

“I am not a journalist, Rafa,” Emiliano sounded amused. “You don’t have to be politically correct to me – I get enough of it already in class.”

“Rafael. Call me Rafael.”

“Rafael, then. What were you saying?”

“I am from an island, I swim and row in the sea…I love large open spaces. Large tall buildings intimidate me. I love them, but to live in one -”

Emiliano laughed. “You live in a house, don’t you? Joking, of course.”

Rafa laughed too. “Yes, I live in a house. But I spend most of my time outside. And I wanted to say I am a bit frightened to walk through lanes with tall buildings on both sides – I feel claustrophobic. Rome is beautiful, but sometimes I am terrified a little.”

“But you love old architecture?” Emiliano seemed thoughtful again.

“Yes, I do,” Rafa answered.

“Then you must see the roof of this castle,” Emiliano observed. “There is a wonderful view of the city also. The night view is quite beautiful”

“You are staying here, then?” Rafa asked, but he could guess the answer already.

“Yes,” Emiliano replied. “I could have stayed at home and gone to see the matches from there, but father wanted me to have fun, I suppose. And _this_ is his idea of fun. Not that I am complaining” He shrugged. “My room is two floors above. It has a high ceiling and marble columns and decorated windows, so you may be intimidated.” He gave a significant pause. “But the window seats are nice, and they offer great views.”

 _Look beyond the words, Rafael_ , he said to himself. It was not the words that were important, but the meaning behind them. _Read the lines and read between the lines_ , his mother always told his sister. His quiet, reserved, wise mother.

“Shall we go to the roof?” Emiliano’s voice broke into Rafa’s thoughts.

“Yes, sure, if you wish,” Rafa said. “Just let me inform my PR agent that I have met a friend and may be a bit late.” But he sent the man a different message, telling him to return to their hotel; that he would return later, alone. _Why did he do that? He_ did not, _his fingers_ did.

He followed Emiliano up the wide, stone stairs. The door to the roof was open. A gasp escaped Rafa’s lips as he walked into the roof. It was big enough to hold several tennis courts. The boundary walls had crenellations and slits. “Those are arrow slits,” Emiliano pointed out. “And they could put their crossbows here and fire the bolts down into the enemies gathered before the front door.”

“But crossbows don’t have very long range, do they?” Rafa asked, a bit unsure. He had heard it somewhere, perhaps some friend of his had read it to him from some book ages ago. It did not matter, really, whether Rafa was correct or not. Something of far greater importance was happening that night.

“You are right,” Emiliano responded. “But they also used catapults and canons. Those have longer ranges. But I do not wish to talk about war. You should enjoy the view.” He guided Rafa to the western wall, and Rafa gave another gasp of surprise. The moon was a sickle in the western horizon, the stars shone like jewels, and the old city lay as if in a map before Rafa’s eyes. “This is like a watchtower!” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps it was,” Emiliano whispered. He was standing very close to Rafa. “Perhaps two watchers in ancient times, on a night very much like this, were keeping their eyes on the sleeping city, just like we are doing now.”

“But the city is not sleeping yet.” Rafa tried to keep the tremor out of his voice as their shoulders touched.

“Times have changed, apparently. But people have not – not really – not deep down.” Emiliano leaned against Rafa. He was a head shorter, and his slender figure was a comfortable weight against Rafa’s body. Without thinking, he put an arm around Emiliano’s waist. Emiliano turned his head, rested his chin on Rafa’s shoulder, and murmured into his ear, “Don’t you wish to see my room?”

“Okay,” Rafa nodded. That seemed to be the point of no return.

Emiliano’s room was as gorgeous and as intimidating as the hall, but there the resemblance ended. Emiliano had turned on a mellow light, and Rafa could see a large bed, but his eyes were drawn to the bookshelves. There were titles in Italian, French and English, and a few in Spanish and (he assumed) Latin too. _This man was a reader. Not just a student, but someone who enjoyed reading. Otherwise, no one travelled with so many books_. “You know French!” he exclaimed.

“Had to learn,” Emiliano laughed. “Please sit. Do you wish to have something – coffee, tea, chocolate, ice cream?”

“No, thank you,” Rafa answered. _It sounded so formal!_ “I would have loved to eat chocolate or ice cream, but I am forbidden my favourite foodstuffs during tournaments,” he laughed.

“Then we can go to the window directly and see the view, I think?” Emiliano’s dark eyes shone in the half-light.

“Er – can I use the bathroom?” Rafa asked.

“Sure!” He showed Rafa the way.

Rafa sat on the toilet seat, rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He knew what was going to happen. But it depended on himself. He could go out, thank Emiliano for a wonderful evening, express his hope to see him in the stands cheering for him, and return directly to his training and his uncle. And forget about what might or might not have happened. _Or_ he could let the night take its own course. Toni’s words to him when he was fifteen came to his mind. Last year, when he was in New York, Toni had again said something similar. Rafa was older now, he knew better than he did when he was fifteen or sixteen; it was not a child’s play anymore. He got up. He knew what was right.

The beautiful young man was standing between his bed and his books. Rafa began “Emiliano, it is late, I -” but could not continue farther, for Emiliano stood on his toes and kissed Rafa. Rafa closed his eyes, and let him. His tongue licked Rafa’s chin and his throat before the buttons of his shirt were undone and Emiliano kissed his chest. Rafa looked at Emiliano’s upturned face, and the youth said huskily, “Let me”. Rafa did not have to ask what it was he wanted; he knew. He nodded, and Emiliano slid down to kneel at his feet. He closed his eyes and shuddered as he felt Emiliano’s lips and tongue on him. He let go of all self-control and moaned, hoping that the party downstairs was going on at full swing, and knowing that the old walls were thick enough.

Within minutes Emiliano pulled away and sat back. “What happened?” Rafa asked impatiently. His own voice was unrecognisable in his own ears.

In reply Emiliano extended his arms and Rafa pulled him up. He buried his face in Rafa’s neck and whispered, “I want you to make love to me.”

Rafa carried him to the bed, and he pulled Rafa down on top of him. “Like this,” he said, caressing Rafa’s jaw and looking into his eyes. “I want to see your face.”

Rafa had never done it before. He had had sex several times with his friend from across the ocean, but always he had been the recipient. Actually, till then, he had not wanted it any other way. He liked being penetrated, and he loved to recall the sensation later when distance and duties separated them. He loved the thought that he carried a part of his lover inside him even when they were thousands of kilometres apart. And he had never wanted to see his lover’s face because he did not want to show _his_ face; he was too proud to let anybody know that at times even he shed tears because of physical pain of any sort. Not that he cried every time. Not that he did not like the pain. But sometimes tears would spring to his eyes involuntarily, and he would hide them in the pillow and deny them later to his own self. And now in front of him was a man who wanted to show his vulnerability. To each his own way was the motto of Rafa’s philosophy, and he respected everybody’s decisions.

Rafa sat between Emiliano’s legs, and with trembling fingers tried to prepare him, while the beautiful man moaned and shuddered and pushed onto his fingers. But when the time came, Rafa hesitated. “Please tell me if I hurt you, alright? Whenever you wish me to stop, just say it.”

“Yes, yes!” Emiliano hissed from underneath Rafa, and tightened his ankles around the backs of Rafa’s thighs. A strangled cry escaped his mouth as Rafa entered him, and he clutched his shoulders with such force that Rafa fell on top of him. He buried his head in the beautiful hair and heard moans and gasps and pretty Italian words.

“Can you not stay here tonight?” Emiliano asked with a sigh some time later, as Rafa dressed.

“No, I am sorry,” replied Rafa. “I have training tomorrow morning.” _There was always training in the morning_. “And my uncle will kill me if I stay out all night before the beginning of a tournament.” He sat down on the bed and started to pull on his socks.

“Would you see me again?” Rafa heard a longing note in the voice.

“If it pleases you,” answered Rafa.

“It will please me immensely.” Emiliano sat up. “Won’t it please you?”

“It will,” Rafa said the truth. “Very much. You are a wonderful person.”

“Then come to me whenever you can,” Emiliano murmured with his face pressed to Rafa’s back.

Later guilt gnawed at his heart. _What was he doing? Especially when the man he just met was so tender!_ The tournament will be over in a week, Rafa will return home and from there would go to Paris, and then…whereas Emiliano would return to his university. Was there any chance they might be together, ever? What with Rafa’s tour life and constant travelling across the world, and Emiliano’s student life and fixed schedule at a particular place, would it be possible for them to meet few times a year, let alone every month? And what about his lover? True, they had not promised each other anything, and at that time he had hurt Rafa grievously by starting to date a woman, but… _How many men do you need, Rafael?_ his inner voice scolded him.

During the tournament Rafa kept his professional and personal lives entirely separate, as he always did. Emiliano came to watch Rafa’s matches, and he met Emiliano in his room every day after his match. He defended his title successfully, beating Roger in the final. And it was his final night in Rome that year.

“Cruel night, do not turn into morning!” Emiliano uttered with a heavy sigh.

They were lying side by side on the bed. Emiliano’s hand was in Rafa’s hand, who was admiring the long fingers and the soft skin, and tracing the veins visible in the white wrist. At Emiliano’s words Rafa took the hand to his lips and kissed each finger tenderly. “I will never forget you, dear,” he said.

Emiliano turned his head towards Rafa. “It is not possible to remember someone forever.”

“I remember all the friends I ever had,” Rafa tried to assure him. “Friends of my hometown, of other parts of my country, and from other countries – I try to keep as much contact with them as possible. I will talk to you every day. I will text you.” Rafa knew it was nothing compared to what Emiliano (and he) would have loved, but it was still better than nothing.

“But you would not hold me every day. I would not be able to enjoy your company whenever I wish.” Emiliano paused, and added as an afterthought, “I know I sound whiny to you. I sound stupid.”

“No, you are not stupid. I am the stupid one!” Rafa exclaimed. “I don’t know any of the things you know. I am not a reader like you. I had to finish school, so I did just that – I am not a learned person. It was impossible to continue my studies along with tennis…Why, even newspaper people think I have no brain, if you have seen the news! I cannot speak English!” He almost fumed.

Emiliano wrapped himself around Rafa. “They don’t know you, Rafael. They don’t know – or don’t want people to know - that one needs brains to play tennis. So to them you are always physical, warlike, non-thinker, but I have known you. You are one of the most intelligent persons I have met. Degrees are not everything, you know. And you don’t need English to play tennis – you are not doing a doctorate in English literature.”

Rafa bodily pulled Emiliano on him so that they looked into each other’s eyes. Rafa wanted him to see his face when he said what he wanted to say. “In a better world you would have been my partner. I would have flaunted you to the world.”

Emiliano laughed at Rafa’s words. “I know. There will be time for that,” he added thoughtfully.

That time never was. They did not part suddenly. They did not part at all. They just drifted apart, over years. Their interests were so different, and their lives so different, that they could not keep their word. But he had made Rafa better. It was because of him that Rafa took up reading. He started learning English from some English-speaking players. He learnt French.

He tries to think of the other men he had known. How many of them were professional sportsmen? Most of them were not, actually. The owner of that small bookshop in Valencia, who brewed so many kinds of tea. The student of film studies in Barcelona, who spoke eight languages including Arabic and Bengali. The running enthusiast in Miami, who showed Rafa the city. The abstract painter in Paris, who body-painted Rafa one afternoon and then bathed him to wash the paints off – Rafa had to keep still and let him do what he wanted. The physiotherapist in Mexico who had incredibly deft fingers – and how guilty Rafa felt when he came to know that that man was married, with two children! The nature photographer in Melbourne, who took Rafa to one of his night photography sessions. Rafa wonders if he could include Roger in that list. They were close friends – some would say very close friends – in the other life. They were quite intimate outside of their tennis lives; they shared a lot of beautiful moments even outside the courts. People were of the opinion that theirs was the most beautiful rivalry because theirs was the most beautiful friendship. And he was in love with Roger, had wanted Roger with all his body and soul, and sometimes he had a feeling that Roger wanted him as much, but mostly it was a one-sided thing, from Rafa’s side. And they had never had sex; for although Rafa wanted it very much, especially in his early youth, he did not want to break Roger’s family.

There were others too; Rafa cannot remember all of them. When he comes to think of it, he had not been as careful as Toni would have liked him to be. All those men knew who he was; any one of them could have exposed him, but no one did. _And how many of them did he really love? Well, he enjoyed their company, he loved them as friends, he loved them while they were together, but how many of them did he think of having a life with?_ Of all the men he knew in that life, he only ever wanted to live his life with two, and both he lost.

Rafa knows he should not have waited so long with Emiliano. Waiting never did anyone any good. So, with his first love he tried not to wait too long. The year he completed his career slam, he invited _him_ to his house in December. He took _him_ to Ibiza on his boat. And there he proposed marriage to _him_. But _he_ refused. Not that _he_ did not love Rafa, _he_ loved him very much, but because _he_ loved Rafa _he_ did not want to destroy him.

__“Destroy me? How?” Rafa almost could not speak in his disappointment._ _

__“Please try to understand, Rafael.” _He_ tried to calm Rafa. “I would love to live with you. I would be ecstatic to proclaim to the world that I love you. And do you think our lives could continue as before, after all this? You think we won’t suffer? You think I can watch you suffer?”_ _

__“But we suffer already, as things are.” Rafa had not forgotten how he had lost Emiliano by trying to be too discreet. “This is not like me, lying and hiding. And why did you break up with your girlfriend? Tell me!” He knew they were having a proper quarrel now, and he was not speaking coherently, but he did not care. He did not want to lose everyone because society desired so – the tour desired so._ _

__“I -” _he_ lowered _his_ eyes. “It was not true love on my part. I did not want her to suffer, she had done nothing wrong.”_ _

__“But you want me to suffer, and you claim to love me!” Angry tears sprung into Rafa’s eyes._ _

__“I know that is how it appears to you. But try to think!” _He_ sat Rafa down on the bed and pulled up a chair to sit in front of him. “This – this suffering – this would be nothing compared to what you would experience if you no longer hide. I can tell you, you would want respite before a week is over.”_ _

__“I – don’t – care!” Rafa gasped, trying not to cry._ _

__“But you must care! Hiding is not lying, Rafael, it is self-preservation! Do you think our careers would remain as before if we married today? Forget about my career – it is neither here nor there. No, don’t try to protest,” _he_ said sternly, for Rafa had opened his mouth. “But you! You have such a bright future in front of you! There is still so much to win, so many records to make and break! Would I take away all that from you for my own selfish gratification? How could I say I love you most in the world if I did that?”_ _

__Rafa had understood. Well, not on that day. He knew _he_ was right, but did not wish to admit it just then. But he understood. They remained great friends. They trained together if they were participating in the same tournaments. They visited each other often during their free time. They went on holidays together, in Rafa’s boat. And they had sex. They were not exactly what is called ‘friends with benefits’; they were not. They were more. Their friendship was valuable to both of them._ _

__“We will do it, after,” Rafa told _him_ , more than once. _After_ meaning after Rafa retired. It was again a long wait, although Rafa had promised never to wait again. Still, it was certain that the _after_ will come some time in future. However, even certain events might not occur sometimes. That _after_ never came, because Rafa’s career simply vanished one day, along with his life and his loves._ _


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa and Miguel Ángel...well, read for yourselves :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter today, as I promised. It is a very short chapter, but I had written most of this a long time ago; only corrected a bit, added some things, and am posting it today.

The doorbell rings. It cannot be Roger, Rafa thinks. Roger always informs beforehand, and anyway Rafa knows the sound of Roger pressing the bell. This is a different person.

The bell rings again. _Definitely_ not Roger; he never rings more than once. Rafa puts on a shirt and runs downstairs to open the door. Miguel Ángel is standing on the top step, beaming. “I have got a scholarship!” He exclaims before he is through the door. “I am going to Barcelona! I am going to work under the supervision of the professor I always wanted to work with!” Miguel Ángel is all happiness.

“Congratulations, Ángel! And I don’t know if I should be jealous of you,” Rafa says, smiling. “Barcelona is a beautiful city!” _They have a court named after me_. He does not say that. _Probably not in this world, anyway._

“My grandparents don’t live in the city proper, you know. Their house is in the outskirts. But the campus where I am going to work is closer to the house,” Miguel Ángel says.

“When do you start your PhD?” Rafa asks as he ushers him into the drawing room.

“It starts in September. But before that there is a six-week course that I have to do. And there are some things to do with registration and some other paperwork….then there are arrangements for living at my grandparents’ place. I am going away this weekend. My mother is going with me, to settle me down and everything, then she will return here.” Miguel Ángel reaches into his jeans pocket and takes out a piece of paper. “Here – keep my mother’s number, and her address. In case you do not find me on phone, call her. And if you would visit her sometime – mother will be lonely after I go away – would be very nice!” He blushes.

Rafa is very happy for Miguel Ángel. He has come to care for him during these years. He is happy the young man’s dreams have come true, although that would mean he would lose the company of his only constant and reliable friend.

“I will visit her, Ángel. I would be lonely, too, with you gone.” Rafa’s voice cracks a little.

Miguel Ángel holds both of Rafa’s hands in his own. “I will miss you, Rafael. I will miss the academy. And our tennis sessions. And your cooking.”

Tears try to well up in Rafa’s eyes, but he will not cry. He will be positive, always. “I am happy for you, Ángel! And I will miss you. But to gain something you have to lose something, I suppose,” he says.

Miguel Ángel looks tearful. He holds out a box wrapped in pastel-coloured paper. “I made this for you, Rafael, so that you remember me.”

“Ángel -” Rafa cannot say ‘thank you’ as he takes the box, and Miguel Ángel moves his hands so that his fingers remain over Rafa’s fingers. “How can I forget you, Ángel? You are my best friend - my only friend.”

Miguel Ángel shakes his head. “I don’t mean that. Open it after I leave.” His slender fingers caress Rafa’s callused ones for a moment before he withdraws his hands.

Rafa tries to change the mood. Miguel Ángel is leaving for the next stage of his life; the farewell cannot be entirely of sadness. “So, how should we celebrate this wonderful news? You want a good dinner, I believe? Do you wish to go out somewhere, or you want my cooking?”

Miguel Ángel smiles shyly. “Your cooking is the best, Rafael. And afterwards you will give me a drink, won’t you?”

“Well”, Rafa pretends to think. “I am not a fan of drinking, and I don’t encourage people to drink either. But as this is the end of your holidays, and as you are going to start a great life …” Rafa drops the serious act and smiles broadly. “You will definitely have a drink.”

Rafa forgets how many drinks they have after dinner, or how they end up in his bedroom. He finds himself pushed against the closed door and feels Miguel Ángel’s hot breath on his lips. Rafa’s lips open of their own, letting Miguel Ángel inside his mouth. The younger man’s tongue drags across the roof of Rafa’s mouth, and Rafa moans and surrenders. He feels Miguel Ángel’s arms around his waist and lets himself be steered away from the door, and cries out when his back hits the bed hard, Miguel Ángel falling on top of him. He is kissing Rafa’s eyes, his lips, his throat –

And a voice inside Rafa’s head says sternly, _This won’t solve anything_.

Rafa tries to ignore it, but there is guilt welling up inside him. What about his love for Roger? What about his decision to be patient and wait, even for the rest of his life if Roger never says anything? _A human being can’t live like that_ , one part of Rafa’s brain tries to argue with the other part. _You have waited this long, can’t you wait a few more days? Or years?_ The other part retorts back. Rafa’s eyes snap open. Miguel Ángel has undone the buttons of his shirt and is biting a nipple. And Rafa’s treacherous hands are in Ángel’s hair, holding him in place.

Rafa is pinned underneath the young man, but he is much stronger. He croaks “Stop, stop!” and gently pushes him away and sits up.

“What happened?” Miguel Ángel is surprised.

“I don’t – you deserve someone better, someone nice and kind and honest.”

“You are all these,” Miguel Ángel waves a hand.

“No! I have been most unkind to my mother and my sister…Uncle Toni also – it is not their fault,” Rafa says.

“Nothing is anybody’s fault,” Miguel Ángel says sincerely. “They are your family. You will apologise, they will apologise, and everybody will understand everything. All will be forgiven and forgotten. Now can I kiss you?” He leans closer.

“No.” Rafa holds the young man’s shoulders and stops him. “You saved my life. You saved me not only from drowning in the sea, but from – from drowning in despair also. I cannot harm you.”

“A little sex won’t harm me. I am old enough,” Miguel Ángel laughs. “And I love you.”

“I love someone else,” Rafa says.

Miguel Ángel sits back and frowns. “Is he the one who sends you the postcards?”

“You are really observant!” Rafa grimaces.

“Does he love you?” Miguel Ángel asks with some vehemence.

“I believe so.” Rafa does not know why he is so sure, but he is.

“Then I wish you every possible happiness.”

Rafa can hear the disappointment in his voice, can see the hurt in his eyes. But better to be hurt a little now, than have his heart broken later. The young man smiles, raises his hand in farewell, and leaves the bedroom. Rafa hears his footsteps down the stairs, hears the front door closing. He lets the tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is how I always wanted it to be. Roger and Miguel Ángel would probably never meet. It would be too complicated :P


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the time for acceptance and reconciliation.

Rafa believes any season can be the season of forgiveness. He had wanted reason once; he failed wherever he looked for it. He wanted love once, the love of a lover, and it was more complicated than he imagined it to be. The one he loves has not loved him back, and when another one wanted to give him love he could not accept. He has only one thing now – acceptance. He has accepted his present life, he has accepted his former life is gone – never existed in this world, and he has moved on in that regard. Now he only wants forgiveness.

Rafa stands in front of the door of his old home. His ancestral home, where he was born and brought up. Where he spent his days of childhood and youth. Where he lost his life as he knew it. He takes in a few deep breaths. He is going to visit his mother and sister properly for the first time since he moved out over five years ago. All these years, whenever he visited, he just met his mother at the door for a few minutes and did not go into the house, or when he did he only sat in the hall and spoke to his sister. This time he would go as a child of the house. He would apologise to them; he would do everything they wanted him to. He would not be able to move back, not after everything that has happened, but he is prepared for everything else. Miguel Ángel’s words are constantly on his mind – _They are your family, no?_

Rafa stands at the door for some two minutes, steeling himself, before he rings the bell. His mother opens the door. Rafa looks into her eyes and says calmly, clearly, “I am sorry for everything, mother.”

Ana Maria bursts into tears. “No my son, I am sorry! I am sorry!”

She hugs Rafa and cries on his shoulder. Tears trickle down his cheeks. _Let them fall. Let them wash away everything_. He sees his sister come and stand behind Ana Maria. She is dabbing furiously at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Together, brother and sister manage to take their mother to the drawing room and sit her down on a sofa. After about a quarter of an hour she calms down enough to say shakily, “How can I tell you how happy I am, son!”

“You don’t have to, mother,” Rafa smiles. “I know you are very happy. I am very happy too. We are all happy.”

“I must feed you. Goodness knows what you ate all this time!” She seems flustered.

“I can cook, mother!” Rafa exclaims. “You are the one who taught me, remember?”

“Still, still…” murmuring to herself, Ana Maria gets up and goes to the kitchen.

Rafa looks at Maria Isabel. There is an awkward moment between them before she says, “You don’t have to apologise to me, brother. I know we were horrid to you. No, let me finish,” she shakes her head and raises a warning finger as Rafa tries to interrupt, “We did not hear you out. We thought – I don’t know what I thought – but we should have tried to listen to you instead of trying to enforce our view of the world on you. What you were saying seemed crazy to us, and we were terrified – I thought we were all crazy. Anyway, this is not getting us anywhere. Want to see my plants?”

“Definitely.” Rafa gets up.

They go to the patio. Maria Isabel has put a lot of new potted plants there, more than there were the last time. There are some flowering cacti too.

“Beautiful,” Rafa says. “Don’t know how you can manage all this alone.” Earlier, before all that happened, they used to do this together.

“Not all alone, Rafael. Mother helps some, now that you -” She stops, then continues, “Do you still do gardening?”

“Yes,” Rafa answers. “You must come one day – there are lots of flowers in the garden. And some cypresses behind the house. I did not plant the trees, though. They came with the house.”

“How do _you_ manage everything?” Maria Isabel asks a bit guiltily. “ _You_ are there all alone.”

“Not alone all the time, really,” Rafa says. “I have some friends – there is this really nice boy from the neighbourhood, but he has gone to Barcelona now, for his studies -” Rafa’s heart contracts painfully at the thought of Miguel Ángel, at the thought of the situation they are in at present. “I have an academy – a few children come; their parents are friendly. The people who maintain the courts are nice too. And then there is Roger, he is Swiss -” Rafa claps a hand on his mouth, blushing. How can he possibly explain how he has got himself a Swiss friend!

“Ooh!” Maria Isabel coos. “Swiss, is he?”

_You know him_ , Rafa wishes to say. _You met him so many times, don’t you remember_? But these five years have taught him restraint, if not anything else. _She used to know him, in another life_ , his brain says. _Forget about it_. So Rafa does what is the only logical thing to do. He inwardly curses himself, and exclaims, “Come on! He is a good friend.”

“What does he look like? Is he blond? Does he have nice skin?” Maria Isabel smirks and nudges Rafa with her shoulder.

“Really, Maribel! What a thing to ask!” Rafa exclaims.

To shut her up, Rafa helps her water the plants, remove weeds, and repot a few saplings. A while passes away pleasantly before Ana Maria comes to call them for lunch. “Wash your hands and go to the kitchen, Rafael. And Maria Isabel, change your dress, it is filthy!” She is back in her element, Rafa is happy to notice.

They have a very pleasant lunch. They do not talk about the past five years, as if those years never passed by, and they are only a normal family sitting down to a normal lunch. Rafa likes it this way. And he likes the soup very much. He feels he knows the taste, but not quite. “What is this soup, mother?” He asks. “I have never eaten anything like this.”

“Oh, you _have_ eaten it, Rafael,” Ana Maria answers. “I changed a few spices; and as you do not like cream I have replaced it – well, I will write down the recipe for you.”

“Thank you, mother. I would love to try it.”

“You should come to the Christmas dinner, Rafael,” Ana Maria says. “I know it is some months away …I will cook a new dish, and there will be everyone…”

“And what am I going to tell everyone about where I was all this time?” Rafa mutters darkly. “What if everyone wants to know why we were estranged?”

“I can tell them you got married and moved elsewhere, some other country, and now you have decided to come live closer to us?” Maria Isabel speaks up. “Or perhaps you are visiting us?”

“Honestly, Maribel!” Rafa pulls a face. “Then I will be expected to show them my wife, and I have no wife to show.”

“Why, show them your Swiss man!” Maria Isabel laughs.

“What!” Ana Maria looks from her son to her daughter as Rafa rolls his eyes and Maribel bursts into a fit of giggles.

All things considered, Rafa thinks as he enters his house late in the evening, it has been one of his most pleasant days in recent years.

*******************

Rafa has been dreading this for some time. He has waited a few days and still cannot find the courage to make that call, not after what happened that day. Rafa blames himself entirely – he had led him on blatantly, or had not been strong and strict when he should have been. He is not sure how things are between them now. But he cannot really delay it anymore, not when he is asking everyone for forgiveness.

He memorises the address but still keeps the paper in his purse as he walks towards his destination, just in case. He knows he should have called her; she might be away on duty, but he felt incredibly shy and could not dial the number when he tried.

Dusk is settling as Rafa enters the apartment. The building consists of five floors, and she lives in the fourth. Rafa takes the stairs. There are three flats in the fourth floor. Rafa stands in front of the correct door and presses the bell.

A middle-aged lady with black curls and blue eyes opens the door. Rafa could have recognised her anywhere in the world although he never saw her before. He begins his well-rehearsed speech, “Forgive me for this intrusion, madam, and especially because you do not know me -”

She raises an arm to stop him. “I know who you are, Rafael. Please come in.” She closes the door after Rafa enters, and continues, “My son used to talk a lot about you. He adores you.”

Rafa blushes and tries to hide his face by bending down to untie his shoelaces.

He is shown into the sitting room where he sits on a small sofa and tries to observe everything discreetly. The room is small and simply furnished, but kept very clean and tidy. He looks at the woman sitting opposite him. “I am very sorry that I have arrived like this. I should have informed you first, Miss Navarro.” Rafa switches to Catalan, which seems to please her very much. He decides to speak in her native tongue for the rest of the visit.

“Please don’t apologise like that. If you would wait a little, I can bring you some tea. It would be nice to talk with tea.” She gets up. “And call me Ana Lena.”

Now Rafa can observe the place at his ease. It is interesting that during five years of knowing each other, Rafa never came to Miguel Ángel’s house. Not that he did not invite Rafa. But Rafa had always refused, saying he did not want to inconvenience his mother; she must have a busy schedule; she deserves rest and peace at home, and all that. And now, when Ángel is not here, he has come to inconvenience her with an uncomfortable matter.

Ana Lena puts two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on the low glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Rafa gives her the box of chocolates he brought for her. He had forgotten to give it to her when he entered the flat.

“Oh, thank you very much, dear!” She laughs. “I have heard that you cook well.”

Rafa blushes again and concentrates on his tea. He does not know how to begin. Ana Lena looks at him expectantly, probably expecting him to speak first. He does not know how much she knows, or what she may think of him after he has finished talking. As well to take the plunge. “Um – you see - Miguel Ángel is a great friend. He has helped me a lot – in life – in tennis – you probably know about my academy and all. Now, the matter is, just days before he went away, he came to see me, and -” Rafa stops and gulps down some tea. Ana Lena does not say anything, but continues to look at him with those blue eyes so reminiscent of her son. “Well, something happened. Nothing, really. Okay, not nothing, but -. He was not at fault – if it was anybody’s fault it was mine. It was mine only. I did not act responsibly and -” Oh no! Rafa is making it worse. What might she be thinking! In his mind he is back that morning over two decades ago, sitting on a bench with Toni beside him; Toni thinking Rafa had drunk a lot and had sex, while in reality Rafa had had a bad headache and had fled at the prospect of sex. He continues, “I know I am not making sense -”

“You don’t need to,” Ana Lena says with a small smile. “He told me.”

“He told you?” Rafa gapes at her. _He could not have told her everything. He could not have told her that Rafa had not told him about Roger earlier, that Rafa had led him on because of his own selfish desires_ …

“He did. I won’t tell you he tells me _everything_ , because he is old enough to decide for himself and I don’t want to know every detail of his life, but he tells me the important things. Or he talks to me when he is agitated and wants some advice.” She leans back in her seat. “When he received that mail of acceptance, he wanted to give you the news in person. He told me he would have dinner with you – that you would not let him go without dinner. When he returned he would not look me in the eye, and confined himself in his room, so I asked him. He told me what happened. Well, I got the summary of it. I think you were the proper gentleman and handled the situation admirably.”

“Oh no, not really!” Rafa exclaims. “I was responsible for Ángel’s belief…my actions gave him hopes of things not possible -”

“Don’t blame yourself like that.” Ana Lena leans forward and squeezes his hand. “No use blaming yourself. This is what I told – Ángel – you call him that, right? I like it. Anyway, no good dwelling on the past and what could have been. Let’s look towards what can be.”

“Yes, thank you,” Rafa gasps. “That is what I came to you about, actually. I need your help.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Is Ángel still my friend?” Rafa whispers. “I mean, would he take my calls? Answer my messages? Would he see me when he comes home?”

“That you should ask him yourself, don’t you think?” Ana Lena smiles.

“Oh, yes, yes, definitely,” Rafa says. “What I meant is, would you help me if he does not respond to my calls or messages?”

“Oh, that! You will always have my help. You are my child’s friend, you are like my own child.” She finishes her tea. “Call him. He will answer; I know my son. If he does not, come to me.”

And Rafa has no excuse to delay it any longer, but he does not know how to approach it. He does not change after he returns from Ana Lena Navarro’s flat; he only takes off his shoes and goes upstairs. He paces about in his bedroom but cannot calm down enough to make the call. He goes to the kitchen – his anxieties vanish into nothingness whenever he is in his kitchen – but not this time. He goes to the terrace and gazes at the stars above – he can generally take decisions when looking at the sky – but not this evening. He goes to the garden at the back of the house and lies down on a bench, looking up at the dark canopy of the cypresses. He takes out his phone from the pocket of his trousers and opens the contacts page. He should send him a message asking him if he is free and if Rafa could call. _But would he read the message? And even if he reads, would he answer_? Finally, throwing all doubts to the winds, Rafa dials the number. It rings. And rings. And rings. Rafa holds his breath. _Pick up. Pick up please_.

At last the call is picked up. “Hello,” a guarded voice speaks.

“Good evening, Ángel,” Rafa sighs into the phone. “How are you?”

“Oh, I am fine. Still settling down, and so much work to do. I was helping my grandmother with dinner.” The voice is more high-pitched than usual, and the words are rushed.

“Alright, Ángel, please listen,” Rafa sighs again. “I am really sorry about what happened that day. I led you on blatantly and -”

“Rafael -”

“I should have had foresight and better judgement,” Rafa raises his voice so as not to let Miguel Ángel interrupt. “I should have made it clear that there could only ever be friendship between us, nothing more and nothing less, and -”

“Rafael -”

“I blame myself, and myself only, for what happened. I wanted to tell you about Roger for a long time.” Rafa notices that he is speaking in Catalan. Perhaps his subconscious has sensed something. “Please don’t judge me harshly for not telling you sooner -”

“Rafael, I never judge anyone, ever!” Miguel Ángel interrupts, switching to Catalan.

“No, please, let me continue. I tried to tell you several times. But every time I tried, something choked me. I was afraid the truth would hurt you. I was afraid to lose you.” Tears start falling from Rafa’s eyes. “You were the only person who came to see me with a regularity…Your face helped me to get on with this life – grounded me to this reality – this life I did not want, you helped me to make it my own and make it better…I was afraid you would leave me…I was selfish…” Rafa cannot continue.

“Please don’t cry, Rafael!” Miguel Ángel exclaims, his voice filled with concern. “You are not selfish. You are not.”

“I am terribly sorry, and I beg you to be kind and forgive me,” Rafa manages in between sobs. “I hope that incident would not break our friendship; I value it very highly -”

“Rafael, it was not your fault!” Miguel Ángel says finally. “It was I who acted like a - I don't know what. You were nice to me all the time, and took me to restaurants and cafés, cooked lunches and dinners for me, played with me – you were so kind, so friendly – and I took it for something else. I even knew your heart belonged to another – I deduced as much from the postcards in your bedroom – and still I let myself daydream and hope that someday you would be mine. You loved me like a friend and a brother, and I wanted you to love me like you love the person who sends you postcards. It is easy, I had convinced myself. But you acted like the real gentleman that you are, Rafael, when I threw myself at you.”

Miguel Ángel stops to draw breath and Rafa speaks up. He has been able to control his emotions by now. “It is still my fault, Ángel. I should have acted more responsibly – I am old enough to be your father.”

“Oh no! Not really! You are not that old!” The young man’s laughter travels through hundreds of kilometres and reaches Rafa’s ear.

Rafa laughs too. Their conversation becomes easier after this. Miguel Ángel talks about his new life in a new place, Rafa talks about his new life in the old place. Rafa is happy to know that Miguel Ángel is satisfied with his guide and his department. Miguel Ángel is delighted to hear that Rafa has reconciled with his family. “They are your family, I told you!”

“I visited your mother. She was very kind to me,” Rafa informs him.

Miguel Ángel is overjoyed. “Thank you so much, Rafael! She must have been very happy! You don’t know how embarrassed I was when I talked to her about ourselves and that – that evening. But she was very kind when I finished. She does not really judge anyone.”

“No, she does not,” Rafa agrees. “I hope to be like her one day.”

“You already are, Rafael. You already are.”

“No,” Rafa says at once. “You are the non-judgemental one. And don’t argue with me on this. I like to have the last word in an argument – I like to dominate everyone.”

Miguel Ángel dissolves into peals of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter after this, then comes what we have been waiting for. I am working on the Roger-Rafa meeting :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafa's final preparations for another new beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the heartbreak of yesterday (or today, depending on where you live), I had to add another chapter to this heartbreaking story. This is a nice chapter (though no Roger yet, but he is on his way :)).
> 
> I would be away for work much of the next two weeks, so the next chapter would not be here before April.

Rafa starts the record player on his bedside table and sits on the floor, leaning against the wall. During the last few days – after Miguel Ángel left, he has listened to the songs so many times that by now he has almost learnt all the lyrics by heart. It is the record Miguel Ángel gave him as farewell gift, containing his favourite songs sung by his favourite singer, Pablo Alborán. Over the years Rafa had heard a few songs when Miguel Ángel played them – he has never been a great fan of pop, but now he is discovering so much meaning! And so many songs are so relatable; so reminiscent of his time with Miguel Ángel! May be that is why he gave Rafa the record. It was _he_ who chose the songs, after all.

There were also a small note and a letter inside the package. The note just said – ‘Dearest Rafael, With love, Miguel Ángel’. The letter was a sort of tribute to Rafa – to their friendship, their relation over the years, how Rafa inspired him to strive towards his goal and never to yield – and reading those lines Rafa was embarrassed; surely Miguel Ángel had helped him more in that regard! At the end of the letter Ángel had acknowledged his love for Rafa. When he first read those lines, they had brought tears to his eyes, but thinking about those words now does not hurt Rafa as much. They have spoken – they are friends, and everything else will be alright.

Rafa looks outside through the open window. The sky has darkened, though it is afternoon. Clouds have covered the face of the sun. More rain clouds are racing across the sky. Looks like an evening of storm. It never really rains much in summer, but this is an island; one can never be certain of the weather.

‘…Déjame ser tu refugio, déjame que yo te ayudo/ Aguantémonos la vida, te recuerdo si lo olvidas…’

No, this is not what Rafa wants to hear now. These words are what he can say to Roger, some day, when that day comes. But this moment is for Miguel Ángel. ‘Tu refugio’ is not the right song for him. For them. Rafa turns the knob. The opening bars of ‘Por fin’ starts. The beautiful notes of piano fills Rafa’s heart. He lies down on the floor.

‘…Tú me has hecho mejor, mejor de lo que era/ Y entregaría mi voz a cambio de una vida entera/ Tú me has hecho entender que aquí nada es eterno/ Pero tu piel y mi piel pueden detener el tiempo…’

This is it. These words are perfect to say to Miguel Ángel. He _did_ make Rafa better. He helped Rafa create a new life, a new identity which is as meaningful as the one he lost. Never a day passes by when Rafa does not miss his lost life, but the debilitating pain and depression are distant memories, as if really from another life.

Yes, this is a song of hope. In this world nothing is eternal, true, but…There is a ‘but’, and that is what is important. The moments are important. The moments are real. What is life but a collection of moments, really? Moments make us sad, moments make us happy, we live on moments…Sorrow is not eternal, but it is real. Happiness is not eternal either, but it is real…

Maribel is happy. Rafa’s mother is happy. When his father hears of their reunion, he would be happy too, supposes Rafa. He would meet Toni someday, like he has met his mother and sister. Not just yet, but soon, and Toni would be happy. Miguel Ángel will be happy in his life, Rafa is certain. And it is time for Rafa to be happy also. It need not depend on what Roger would or would not do. It should not depend on whether Roger ever declares his love or not. Really, why should it matter? Why does the society, the media, the books – everything – try to propagate the notion that after a certain point in one’s life, the only life worth living is with a romantic/ sexual partner? Is life with a friend, or a sister, or a brother, or a parent, or a child less worthwhile, less meaningful than living a life with a lover? A sudden clap of thunder interrupts Rafa’s musings.

The storm breaks with a huge roar. Rafa turns off the music player, unplugs it, and runs to shut the windows. Living alone in a two-storey house is difficult, especially in situations like this, when everything has to be done at once. Fortunately, he had shut the ground floor windows earlier. He almost forgets the windows of Roger’s bedroom before he hears something crash in that room. It is the table lamp kept on the bedside table. Thankfully the glass shade is not broken. He closes the windows, replaces the lamp on the table, and lies down on the bed – Roger’s bed as he calls it, and watches the storm through the glass window panes.

In the face of nature’s terror, man finds his strength, and enlightenment dawns on him. Nature purges, nature cleanses. It happens to Rafa now, as it happened to millions of others before, through the ages. The lightning flashes are fire in his heart, cleansing him of his sorrow. _Is it not arrogance to expect the world to remember you? Is it not foolishness to want your life to define something? Is it not childish to believe everything happens for a reason?_ In that other life Rafa had always been a humble person, had never let fame and glory corrupt him or bring arrogance in his heart. Now, when that life is gone – when that life never existed in the first place – should he not be just as humble in its loss? Roger had talked of sacrifices. True, in that life Rafa had made a lot of sacrifices to play tennis, but had he been a different person doing something different, like he is in this world, would he not have made sacrifices? Would those sacrifices have been any lesser, just because they were made by a man not famous?

Fire purges, so does the sea. After the storm is over, and the rain has stopped after hours, Rafa walks down to the sea. He takes the longer route, so he has to pass by the small dune with palm trees, where he and Roger had stopped one night and looked upon the silent sea. On an impulse he climbs up to the top and gazes around. It is past midnight, and the beach is deserted, probably due to the summer storm earlier. The air smells clean, the sky is clear, a million stars are shining. There is no moon. Everything seems similar to that night years ago when Rafa had gone into the sea, believing it will take him back to who he used to be. That desire had almost killed him. Tonight he would kill that desire, forever. He no longer desires physical death; it is in the hands of the future. He would kill the desire for that old life, and the desire for public remembrance with it.

Rafa strips naked. There is no one around, and even if there were he does not care. _This is how he came into this life. It is as well to go into the next like this._ He climbs down the slope, walks the remainder of the path and walks into the waves until he can no longer stand and has to swim. The cold almost numbs his limbs. In his mind’s eye he can visualise the sea entering through every pore of his body and mix with his blood. When he returns to the beach, he is a new man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words 'Why does the society, the media, the books – everything – try to propagate the notion that after a certain point in one’s life, the only life worth living is with a romantic/ sexual partner? Is life with a friend, or a sister, or a brother, or a parent, or a child less worthwhile, less meaningful than living a life with a lover?' were said to me by one of my exes. A very nice person (but unfortunately we are no longer together).


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger returns and declares his love for Rafa. Rafa accepts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the chapter we have all been waiting for. Roger has returned to Rafa for good. I hope I have done the chapter justice.
> 
> Mild caution for non-graphic sex scene. I would not have written it if it were not necessary to the plot.
> 
> Also, wish me, tomorrow is our New Year's Day.
> 
> Now enjoy!

… _The bubble bursts. At once the air is gone; it is suffocating, hot, and – dark, terribly dark. No, there are torches, the torches are shining - burning bright, but all that fire and smoke cannot dispel the tiniest bit of the darkness all around. He cannot see the bearers of the torches as the flames are blinding him. They have surrounded him; they are closing in on him from all sides_ …

Rafa gasps and wakes up. Darkness, that old enemy. It has always frightened him and haunted his dreams. But why should he have this nightmare on the night before Roger finally arrives? Why can the flames not get rid of the darkness? Is it an omen?

Rafa looks out of the window. It is almost light – he could get up now. There is coaching in the morning. And he will inform the parents that he is going to take a few days off, because he has a feeling that he and Roger would need to talk about a lot of things this time. Then there is lunch; he does not have to cook anything, there is enough leftovers from last night to make a decent meal. Then he has to go to the market to buy the ingredients – he is going to make his mother’s soup for dinner tonight. His life is very routine.

And he gets on with his routine life through the day. At times there is a sudden increase in heartbeat, or a sudden flutter in his belly, or suddenly his hands get cold, but he firmly ignores these. It has been five years that Roger visits him twice a year, once approximately every six months. And the days of Roger’s visits are very routine too. Cook dinner, eat, go to the beach, talk, return home and sleep, wake up next morning, make breakfast, eat, cook lunch, eat, cook dinner…and so on. At times they may visit a restaurant or a park or walk through the streets looking at the sculptures, but those times are rare. Roger arrives tired after his travels; Rafa is a rest stop to him. They both know the drill. _Don’t think anything will be different this time, Rafael_ , he chastises himself.

He gets late at the shop in which he enters to buy jam. It was not necessary for the soup, but Rafa wanted to try having tea with jam in the way he saw in a YouTube video by a Russian man, and he wanted to give it to Roger too. Which means he has to almost run to the fish market that is some way off, to buy prawns, a necessary part of the soup. When he has completed his shopping, it is quite dark. _Roger must have arrived!_ Rafa thinks of calling a taxi, but then decides against it. It is a nice evening to spend outside, and Roger has the key to the house; he can make himself comfortable without Rafa’s assistance.

Rafa opens the door, puts his keys in his pocket, enters into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. And his eyes fall on the shoes and socks strewn haphazardly in the passage, and the trolley lying on its side at the foot of the steps leading to the hall. So Roger is here, but why was he in such hurry? He opens his mouth to call Roger’s name, but before he can utter a single sound, Roger rushes down the stairs and runs to him and kisses him. It is clumsy and desperate, teeth clashing, Roger’s hair in his eyes, Roger’s nails painfully digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. To stop himself from being knocked off his feet, Rafa has to drop the bags and hold onto Roger’s waist. He had imagined their first kiss hundreds of times, in numerous different situations, in this life and that, but none was like this - this sudden, this desperate, and without any discernible reason.

He breaks the kiss and retreats two steps. Roger has a crazed, haunted look in his eyes, and looks like a madman too, with his hair sticking up in all directions and dark circles under his eyes, and his face even thinner. Rafa wants to ask him the meaning of all this. But English has deserted him. No, every language he knew has deserted him. His voice has deserted him. He has to ask with his eyes. But Roger will understand. Roger always understood him, through layers of shyness and covert glances and broken English. He must understand now what Rafa wants to know. _Why? Why now? What do you know now that you did not know before? What did you find in your journeys that brings you to this? Speak Roger, Speak! Say what I long to hear, or say what you want to mean, but speak!_

“I am sorry,” Roger utters finally. “I thought you had left and I -” his voice falters.

_What!_ Rafa’s heart contracts, not in pain, but in rage. The kiss was – for this!

“Is this why you kiss me?” He asks; his voice low, harsh and dangerous. “Because you thought I left?”

_Roger – his Roger – is he so selfish? He kissed Rafa for not leaving, and not for the person he is?_ He cannot speak any more, he _must not_ speak any more now, or he would say something that he might regret later. He retreats further, still holding Roger’s eyes, and hopes his own eyes reflect the anger and heartbreak consuming his insides. He has work to do – take off his shoes, pick up the grocery bags, put the things in the fridge, cook dinner….

“No!” Roger exclaims, and Rafa stills. “That is not why – no, you always had the right to leave.” Which is true, but Rafa does not voice it out. He can see that Roger is struggling with words. But this is his own battle. Rafa cannot take part. He can only judge the outcome. He puts his hands on his hips and stares Roger down, who first drops his eyes to Rafa’s feet but finally looks up and holds his gaze. Good of him. _He is sincere at least!_

Roger takes a deep breath and says slowly, “I kissed you because I am in love with you.” _Was Rafa imagining these words!_ “I did it all, you know? The whole confronting the past thing. My past. Our past. I went to all those places – Paris and New York and London -” His voice breaks and he is hurrying now, “I could not always get in but I did try to mourn. Properly. I don’t know if you can mourn what you cannot touch or cannot see…I am not sure it worked. I have no idea if it is ever going to work. I’m not sure there is any end to this kind of pain.”

Each word causes Rafa physical pain. It is real, very much real, it is tangible. It is choking Rafa now, trying to kill him; it is as if he is back under the waves, salt water filling his airways, drowning him; his ears are ringing, blood is rushing to his head, surely he is going to die…But Roger is still speaking, and Rafa has to hear him, it is a matter of life and death.

“I’m not sure I’m ever going to return to – what I was. Who I was. But I realised that this is enough for me. I can live with this – this life. I didn’t kiss you because I thought you had left. I kissed you because I thought I had missed my chance to tell you – I love you.”

Rafa trembles. Roger loves him? He realised this on his journeys? Is it true? His heart is beating violently inside his chest, he can hear the heartbeats in his ears. “You love me?” He tries cautiously.

“Yes.”

“And you want to stay? You are not leaving again?” He has to make this certain. Roger has been leaving him for five damned years, how can Rafa expect anything better!

“Yes. I want to stay.”

Rafa again tries to stare Roger down, but this time the man does not drop his eyes. They stare into each other’s eyes for minutes – Rafa judging, Roger facing the judgement. Roger does it bravely, sincerely, and Rafa has always valued bravery and sincerity. So he closes the distance between them, such that their bodies are almost touching, but not quite.

“Can I?” He asks.

“Yes,” Roger answers.

Rafa lets out a breath he did not realise he was holding. He places a hand on Roger’s jaw, tilts his face the way he wants, and touches Roger’s lips with his own, softly, like a feather touching the ground. He would do this right, the way he always imagined it. He caresses Roger’s lips with his tongue, and Roger lets him take control, encircling his arms around Rafa’s waist. Roger’s lips open and Rafa slides his tongue inside his mouth. The moment their tongues touch a jolt passes through Rafa’s body and he pulls Roger closer, embracing him tightly. Roger whimpers and shivers and it is too much, too intense – too intense to keep their feet on the ground and not fall to the floor tangled in each other’s arms. Roger breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Rafa’s.

“I love you,” Rafa murmurs into Roger’s open mouth. “I want you to stay. I always want you to stay, no?”

Roger is silent for some moments before opening his eyes. “I guess I am staying, then.” He takes a step back and smiles in an unsure way which is incredibly endearing to Rafa. “What should we -?”

Rafa remembers his groceries. And his shoes. “I need to put these in the fridge, no?” Rafa indicates the bags.

“Right. Of course.”

Rafa takes off his shoes and carries the bags into the kitchen, Roger following him. Rafa takes his time putting the vegetables and prawns inside the fridge, arranging the jars on the kitchen racks and washing his hands. He is nervous, really. He has waited for this moment, for five years or twenty five, depending on which way one looked at it, and now that the moment has arrived he is again in that same position he was when he had been sixteen, following his first love up the stairs of an unfamiliar building, knowing his life would never be the same again. _No, there is no need to remember that now. It was in another life._ At this moment, Roger is here, and Roger wants him.

He turns around to find Roger staring vacantly at him, his face flushed and sweaty. “Roger?” He calls, and Roger starts and glances down, looking shy. Rafa holds out a hand. “Are you coming?”

Roger glances up at him, and the mixture of fright and anticipation in his face makes Rafa laugh. _Roger looks so like he is fifteen!_ “Oh Roger,” he utters, laughing. “Look at your face – like you don’t know how things are done!”

Roger grunts. “Of course I don’t know how things are done!”

“Let me show you, then.” Rafa starts climbing the stairs, and Roger follows.

******************

Rafa never imagined that among all the situations in which he imagined themselves together, this would be the one to come true, after all.

He pushes Roger down on his bed and climbs on top of him but does not lie down on him. He wants to memorise this moment. He wants to imprint every second in his brain so as to remember it forever in the coming years. Roger looks like he still cannot believe it. _And really, can Rafa either?_

The sky of the evening is silver-gray – it is full moon, and in that light Roger’s face is sparkling. Even Roger’s hair has a silver sheen in it. Rafa’s love! At last! He leans forward, cups Roger’s jaw with one hand and kisses him softly, slowly, his other hand underneath Roger’s shirt, fingers caressing his nipples and the hairs on his chest. Roger is moaning and trembling with every touch. Rafa delights in feeling Roger’s skin and the light shivers his touch is generating.

After minutes Rafa sits up and starts to undo the buttons of Roger’s shirt. He has opened one button from below when Roger catches his wrist. He seems a bit embarrassed. “I have lost weight,” he blurts. “My body – it isn’t what it used to be. Not like you remember it.”

Rafa stills. _Not like you remember it?_ He remembers everything. Has he not been seeing Roger these five years, how he became thinner every time? Did he not realise that Roger had discarded his body, abandoned it as something to be remembered only when hungry? And how that pained Rafa, every time, all the time! He knew what would happen when Roger left him that first time five years ago, searching for a closure that existed nowhere. How guilty Rafa felt being unable to stop him! Could he not amend it now?

He lets go of Roger’s shirt and crawls up so that they are face to face. He has to explain to Roger that he understands, that Roger should never feel embarrassed about his body in front of him. He has to make Roger comfortable. “It does not matter, Roger,” he begins, hoping he can convey with words what he is feeling in his heart. “It matters not to me. I love you. Remember this. I love you.”

He starts undoing the buttons again, and this time Roger does not protest. He sits up a bit to let Rafa take the shirt off. Then Rafa takes off his own shirt and throws it to the floor. He lies down on Roger, their bare chests touching, their bodies aligned. He presses soft kisses on Roger’s throat and neck, and Roger arches his back. Rafa looks into Roger’s eyes and says, “I want you.”

Roger’s eyes are wide and dark. Rafa breathes in the air that Roger exhales, and continues, “And you want me.”

"Yes. I do.” Roger’s breathing is shallow. “I always wanted you. For ages.”

Rafa sits up again and places his hands on Roger’s waist. He can feel the heat of Roger’s skin through the jeans he is wearing. “Tell me.” The situation is so similar to their seaside ritual, yet so different! Had Roger not kissed him like that, they would have been at the beach within hours from now, probably saying these very things in a different way, without any declaration of love.

“The last time we played in Paris…you wore blue and I saw blue everywhere for months. I wanted you so much I was half mad with it.”

“Hmm.” Rafa remembers. He himself was mad that time, not half mad like Roger but completely mad, half with desire and half with guilt. He is mad now too, completely mad with desire and love. There is no place for guilt anymore. He unzips Roger’s jeans, and Roger raises his hips a little and Rafa removes it along with his boxers. Then he sheds the rest of his clothes and they are naked as the day they were born. A new life, a new beginning. Devoid of all lies, all secrecies, all pretense. It is the most natural, most innocent state.

Rafa traces his fingers along Roger’s inner thigh. His whole body is so pale now, unlike that healthy glow he used to have in that other life, in which he played. But it does not matter to Rafa. He kisses Roger’s knees before moving back up and resting his chin on Roger’s hipbone. “Let me,” he says, and is reminded of another man in another life, who had uttered the same words for the same purpose. He pushes that thought out of his mind.

“Yes,” utters Roger and parts his legs wider, one of his hands clutching the bedsheet in anticipation. Rafa settles between his knees and gazes at the man spread out in front of him, offering himself to him, to take him and make him his own. Rafa does just that. He does what he had rehearsed in his head some thousand times, had hundreds of daydreams about, had woken up in the middle of countless nights with his lips parted and sweat all over his body. Like he had done it in his dreams, he takes Roger in his mouth and tastes the salty, tangy, hot taste and smells the must of one who has not showered for long; tastes and smells that he remembers despite over five years of self-imposed celibacy. Roger moans and tangles his fingers in Rafa’s hair, his other hand leaving the sheet and searching for Rafa’s hand. Rafa entwines their fingers and Roger holds his hand tightly, his nails digging into the back of Rafa’s hand but he does not mind at all. He looks up to find Roger looking at him. Holding Roger’s gaze, he puts the barest hint of teeth along the shaft of Roger’s cock, and Roger throws back his head and moans louder. Rafa rubs Roger’s balls with his other hand, and sometimes pulls back to lick his inner thigh. Roger groans and writhes and surrenders completely.

Rafa holds Roger through his orgasm, and when Roger finally calms down Rafa crawls up and lies down next to him, and takes his hand and puts it on his own hard length. Rafa is happy to see that Roger is not nervous or shy as he goes down on him. It has been years since Rafa last received a blowjob, but one does not have to learn to respond to it, the body takes its own care. He looks up at the man straddling his legs, touching him with great care as if he is something precious, and is reminded of all the times he had imagined himself like this, pinned underneath Roger in this position of vulnerability and trust. And Rafa trusts Roger, as he has trusted him since he was a teen. And he is as eager and as unabashed in receiving and enjoying pleasure as he used to be when he was a teen. As he comes in Roger’s mouth he moans sweet nothings in Spanish which Roger would never understand, but it does not matter. Because Roger always understood his feelings, he must understand them now as well.

When it is over they lie side by side, facing each other and smiling like fools, their legs entangled, Roger’s hand on Rafa’s chest, Rafa’s hand on Roger’s waist. Roger moves closer and kisses Rafa’s shoulder and licks his throat, which makes Rafa laugh.

“You have such nice skin,” he says. “I love it.”

“I can see that.”

“It is so smooth.”

“And it smells.” _It does_. “I need a shower.” Rafa sits up. Roger looks disappointed. Rafa laughs again, and takes Roger’s hand and kisses his palm, then licks his fingers one by one. “Is just one shower, Roger. I come back in ten minutes.” He gets down from the bed, gives Roger a smile over his shoulder and walks into the attached bath.  
He starts the shower and water falls like a cascade over him. It is as if a million fingers are touching him, caressing him intimately, kissing him everywhere on his body. He must have sex tonight. Surely Roger would want that too.

But as he comes out of the bath he can see that Roger is thinking about something very different. He is sitting on the bed and frowning – it cannot be something good. Fear grips his heart, but his brain wills him to calm down. “What happened?” he asks, and Roger almost jumps. He has this look of guilt and it is really not good…”Sorry, you look like you are thinking -”

“Come here,” says Roger in a small voice. It is disturbing. Rafa had not envisioned talking about anything disturbing tonight, but if Roger wants it he cannot avoid. He returns to bed and sits beside Roger.

“What are you thinking?”

Roger does not start speaking at once. He rubs his temples, scratches his head, takes deep breaths, and appears agitated. Rafa sits silently and gives him time to collect his thoughts. Roger starts at last. “You know, I had somewhat lied to you when I told you – last time – that I had never really thought much about how it would be like to be with a man. I mean, you know – I mean – I admitted to you I like men too, but when I said I never envisioned being with a man while I had tennis – okay, that was not entirely true. I should have told you then…” His voice trails off as if he has lost the train of his thoughts.

“Is fine,” Rafa cuts him off. “You tell me now.”

“Right.” Roger lowers his head. He looks ashamed, and Rafa does not know what to think. He simply waits for Roger to finish. “So, I did think about it. Like real. I thought about what it would be like for…For us to be together. And sometimes…” His voice breaks. Rafa slowly strokes Roger’s thigh with one hand, trying to calm him. He makes a move to pull Roger close to him – it does not matter if Roger does not say anything more on this matter – but Roger stops him by placing a hand on Rafa’s chest. “No, let me say it. Sometimes I wondered what it could be like if we weren’t who we were. If there was no tennis. So when we lost it all and you were the only one who remembered us I thought maybe all this was my fault.”

Rafa’s heart goes out to Roger. Poor man! Blaming himself for things beyond his control. Blaming himself for things he could not possibly do. Being ashamed for thoughts that could be anybody’s thoughts. “You cannot change the world, Roger. Even if you are very good at tennis.”

“I know.” Roger looks up and there are tears in his eyes. “But sometimes it is easier to think that you caused your own misery than to accept it just happened to you. That is so deterministic. You must have someone to blame for whatever has happened, even if it is just yourself.”

Rafa cannot take it anymore. He hardens his voice a bit and says, “You still doing that? Blaming yourself?"

“No! Well, not as much as before. Not all the time.”

“That is better, then.”

“I wouldn’t be here tonight if I didn’t think I was doing better,” says Roger. “But this is all new to me. I don’t know how to do it.” He gestures vaguely with his hands.

“Do what? The sex?” Rafa says with poker face. “Was okay.” He does not know how he is stopping himself from laughing at the look on Roger’s face.

“Just okay?” Roger seems disappointed.

“First times, you know?” Rafa winks before he turns serious again. Back to the unfinished business. “You were telling me -?”

“Yes. I feel guilty. And I have no idea how not to feel guilty. And – angry. How do you do it, Rafa? How do you not feel angry?” Roger pleads.

“I don’t.” Rafa tells the simple truth. “Some days I wake up and I am angry. But more days I wake up and I am not angry. I just make myself go through the days, no?”

“Live for the good days?” Roger asks.

“Yes, for the good days. And the bad days you try to make better. Is all we can do, I suppose.” Rafa is being very honest. He never gives anyone false hopes, even if false hopes might have hurt them less. In this world one has to live by willpower.

“Good philosophy,” Roger concedes.

“Not philosophy. Life.” Rafa lies down and extends his arms towards Roger. “Come to me. From now you will wake up with me. Good days and bad days.”

“Okay.” Roger lies down next to him.

Rafa rolls over and starts kissing him again. Roger chuckles in between kisses. Rafa stops. “What?”

“Why did you shower, then?” Roger laughs. “You are not going to sleep, are you?”

In response Rafa bites Roger’s lower lip and Roger arches his back, grinding their hips together. Rafa, already aroused, whimpers and rolls over again, pulling Roger with him so that Roger is on top of him now. He needs to feel Roger inside him. “I want you to make love to me,” he utters, with his fingers in Roger’s hair. “Like this. I want to see you face.” These are the same words someone else had said to him aeons ago, but that is a distant memory now.

Roger’s eyes widen in surprise and arousal. “I – I’m not certain -”, he stops, seemingly at a loss what to say.

“You know how to do it. No one has to learn…” But it takes ages of coaxing and hot whispers and pleading and scolding and dirty words until Roger finally agrees. It is not as if he did not want to, but he was uncertain whether they should, on their first night together. And then Rafa has to guide Roger inside him, and taking a look at his face Roger is convinced that he is hurting Rafa, and Rafa has to shut him up by pulling him down on him and kissing him. He wraps his legs around Roger’s hips and guides him and nudges him with his ankles as Roger slowly settles into the rhythm. Rafa tries to say in English whatever he wants to say, but loses all sense of languages and words as Roger bites at his collarbone and comes inside him and Rafa comes between their bodies. When Roger rolls away from him and lies down beside him, both their bodies are sticky and the bedsheet is rumpled and sticky too, but Rafa is too satisfied to get up and clean. He rests his head against Roger’s chest, wraps one leg around Roger’s hip and falls asleep. It is the most satisfying and dreamless sleep in years.

********************

When Rafa gets up it is morning and Roger is not in bed. He panics for a moment before his senses come to him and he sees that their clothes are in a neat pile at one corner of the room. Roger must have woken up before him and gone downstairs for – food! Rafa suddenly realizes that he is starving. They ate nothing last night. Hoping Roger has not burnt himself or the kitchen, Rafa quickly showers and runs downstairs. He finds Roger standing in front of the fridge holding the door open and frowning. Rafa walk inside the kitchen and stands behing Roger. He curls an arm around Roger’s hip and kisses his neck. “Buenos días, amor. You making breakfast?”

Roger leans back against him. “I was trying to, but you distracted me. What were you planning to do with all these?” He indicates the contents of the fridge. “Surely cucumbers, prawns and whatever is in that box do not go into the same dish?”

“Hmm,” Rafa hums and licks Roger’s ear. “New recipe, is secret.” He releases Roger and winks at him. “I can make it tonight.” Of course cucumbers would not go into the same dish, but Roger need not know that now, he will see soon enough.

“Well, if this coaching thing does not work you can open a restaurant. I already told you before.”

“There are many restaurants around here, Roger.” Rafa sits at the table. “I don’t think many people will come.”

“They would if you open it in New York,” Roger says, and closes the door of the fridge. He has taken out eggs. He puts them in a bowl and takes out a cup. Rafa wonders whether to tell him or not. He decides in the affirmative. Roger is going to stay here, sooner or later he is going to know.

Rafa keeps his eyes on Roger’s hands holding an egg and says slowly, “My mother, she gave me the new recipe.”

Roger stiffens slightly. He is silent for seconds before he responds, without turning around, “Did she?” He breaks two eggs in the cup and takes up a fork.

“Yes,” answers Rafa, staring at Roger’s hand beating the eggs with the fork. “I have been to the house. Visited them properly – my mother and my sister. Is not very easy, but is good.”

Roger stops his work. “Toni?” he asks, his eyes still trained on the cup.

“No, not yet,” Rafa responds a bit too sharply. “If you are making omelettes you chop some vegetables and add to the eggs. Better for health. I will get plates – we eat outside.”

He gets up, brings some vegetables to Roger and takes out plates, spoons and the containers of salt and pepper. Roger finishes cooking and they move to the garden. It is a beautiful morning, with birds chirping and trees swaying in the sea breeze. The air is quite warm, there is the distinct smell of salt in it, and a distant smell of something else, perhaps autumn. They settle on the grassy lawn. Rafa takes a bite of the omelette. It is not the best in the world, but it is quite decent. “This is good,” he tells Roger. “Maybe you can help with the restaurant, like I said before.” He winks.

Roger shrugs. “Sure. I will do the decorating. I can paint the place with bright colours – fluorescent colours like the ones you love, and put up streamers and balloons -”

Rafa snorts in reply. He has no idea whether they could open a restaurant in future. What he knows for certain is he has a future here, with one person – the person in front of him, chewing his food and joking. If this person is a bit broken, so is Rafa. He has nightmares, he has bad days, he has fears, he gets bad omens. So what? Together the two of them will make something whole.


End file.
